


As Dreamers Do

by FalseCamaro (Gandalfgirl579)



Series: As Dreamers Do [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Angst, Dream Pack, Dry Humping, Frottage, Grinding, Jealousy, M/M, Masochism, Negative character development, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Prequel, Prokopinsky, Romance, Shotgunning, TRCBigBang, Trans Character, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Underage Smoking, Unhealthy Relationships, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-09-09 00:49:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 36,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8869339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gandalfgirl579/pseuds/FalseCamaro
Summary: Depending on where you began the story, it was about Ilya Prokopenko.
  Written for the TRCBigBang, addressing Proko, Joey K and the origins of the dream pack. Though family is discussed, this is decidedly not a family-friendly fic, so please mind the tags!





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Art for this fic can be found [here](http://badbadhabits.tumblr.com/post/154595621150/hooray-my-entry-for-the-raven-cycle-big-bang) and [here](http://prokopenko.co.vu/post/154559328318/proko-have-you-looked-at-him-of-course-i-want). I'm just pleased as punch :)

Depending on where you began the story, it was about Ilya Prokopenko.

 

-

 

"Did you ever think," Oksana asked, "that if you stopped baiting them, they'd leave you be?"

 

"I'm not _baiting_ them." It was only half true, and Prokopenko rolled his eyes as he knelt to lace his sneakers. As tight as his jeans were, it was a little difficult to move so far. He reveled in the feel of denim tight around his thighs, biting into him along the seams.

 

"Wearing your clothes that tight--"

 

" _Grandmama_." They'd had this conversation ten-thousand times over: He wore his jeans too tight, his shirts showed too much skin, even the flash of his eyes was immodest. He prided himself on it, really. He would never tell her that, of course, but Oksana was infuriatingly good at hearing what he hadn't said.

 

Exhaling a puff of silver-blue smoke, she asked, one drawn-on brow lifted high, "Is it overly harsh to tell your grandson he dresses like a slut?"

 

Biting his lip to hold back a peal of laughter, Prokopenko replied, "Just a bit." It was half a joke, he knew. Oksana had long since made her peace with most of her grandson's stranger habits. This one, though, still bothered her. It was unlikely, he thought, that she would ever fully accept this part of him. He, for his part, had made his peace with it. "Grandmama," he said, his tone soft and gentle as he stood, "it's just a little fun."

 

Taking a long drag off her cigar as she stood beside her grandson in the foyer, Oksana said, "You have a very twisted sense of fun, Ilya."

 

Prokopenko didn't bother arguing that point, instead mussing his hair a bit as he headed out the door and into the summer sun. It was, after all, entirely true.


	2. Chapter 1

_Eat dirt_ , they'd told him.

 

 _So he had_.

 

More or less, that is. There was very little _dirt_ to be had down the Shore. _Sand_ would have to do. It seemed to have suited them just fine.

 

Face-down on the beach, Prokopenko sighed, long and heavy and spent.

 

That, of course, just kicked a fresh wave of sand into his mouth and his nose, and he coughed, though he couldn't find the motivation to move. The roar of the ocean was loud in his ears, louder than the summer breeze and the cries of hungry sea gulls, and he could feel the hint of waves lapping at his feet, soaking into his socks and his right shoe. The left one had been stolen. He'd make due. It wasn't as if he couldn't just go out and buy another pair.

 

Explaining the single shoe's absence to his grandmama, however, would not be so simple.

 

 _Defend yourself, Ilya_ , Oksana was constantly telling him. _A Rozumovskyi doesn't take a beating just lying down_.

 

He wasn't a _Rozumovskyi_ , though. He was a **_Prokopenko_**. Without the family name, it was no wonder his mother had refused to raise him after his father's death. _You're too much like Mykhayl._ It was neither insult nor praise; It was simply truth. He was a pacifist, the same as his father had been. _You let people walk all over you_. He would never dream of telling his mother-- Or even his grandmama, though he was much closer to her-- that he _enjoyed_ being walked all over.

 

Another sigh came, this one half a groan, muffled by the sand, and Proko drummed his fingers a bit, searching for the will to move. He simply didn't _have it_. High tide wouldn't come for another forty minutes, at least, so he had time to linger. He could lay here a while longer.

 

"The fuck're you doing down there?"

 

Whoever he was, he didn't sound like he cared in the slightest. Prokopenko was simply grateful for this other boy's shadow, falling across his back through the glaring mid-morning sun. He was roasted clear through his shirt, he was sure of it. He'd been lying face-down in the sand for nearly an hour.

 

" _You alive_?"

 

A sharp kick to his bruised ribs and Prokopenko gasped, filling his lungs with sand. Coughing again, he turned his head to glare up with one blackened eye, deadpanning, "I've already had enough fun for one day, thank you. Come back tomorrow."

 

With a scoff, the other boy knelt, elbows on his spread knees, asking, " _This is fun_?"

 

"I wasn't really in the mood," Prokopenko admitted, propping up on his elbows as best he could in the sand. The grains bit into his elbows, and he pressed down harder. "I've had better."

 

"You saying you _liked it_?" The other boy sounded more intrigued than disgusted, one brow lifted high above the rims of his white sunglasses.

 

Clicking his tongue, Proko said again, " _I've had better_."

 

The lenses of the other boy's shades caught the sun when he tipped his head, blinding, that dark brow still raised, questioning.

 

"Maybe it's the way I'm dressed." Prokopenko let the sarcasm roll off his tongue, slow and venomous. "Maybe I was _asking for it_." He glanced up again to meet the other boy's eyes, but all he was met with was his own reflection in the lenses of his sunglasses. "They're teenaged boys, after all. That sort has no self-control, I've heard."

 

" _Wow_." The other boy didn't sound at all impressed, though there was the ghost of a smirk lingering at the corners of his full lips. "No wonder they beat the shit outta you."

 

A slow, lazy grin spreading across his face, Prokopenko shot back, smug, "I know, right?"

 

-

 

"What's your name?"

 

"What's it matter?"

 

Prokopenko's eyes rolled at that, though he smiled a bit just the same. Reaching out to grab at the other boy's shoulder, he spun him so they were as close to face-to-face as they could be; Prokopenko was a good four inches taller. When one dark brow lifted over the other's sunglasses, Prokopenko stepped back and held out his hand for a shake. It was an oddly formal gesture he'd picked up from his mother: _All business_. "I'm Ilya. Ilya Prokopenko."

 

One side of his mouth quirking up, the other boy returned the handshake a bit roughly, saying simply, "Joey K."

 

Holding onto that calloused hand for just a moment too long, Prokopenko asked, "What's the K stand for?"

 

"Wouldn't you like to know." And then Joey was plodding past, sneakered feet heavy in the sand, calling over his shoulder, "C'mon, Proko."

 

Furrowing his eyebrows, Prokopenko parroted, " _Proko_?"

 

" _Ilya_ 's too pretty," Joey said with a shrug, "and _Prokopenko_ 's kind of a mouthful, yeah?"

 

Rolling his eyes again, Prokopenko followed, shooting back, "I'd like to think so."

 

Glancing over his shoulder, Joey said, looking amused, "One of these days, that pretty mouth is gonna get you killed."

 

-

 

"This is illegal, you know."

 

"No shit." Producing a lighter from the pocket of his jeans, Joey lit the cigarette perched between his lips.

 

There was no way, Proko thought, that he was old enough for this to be legal. It was charming, his utter disregard for the law and his health. Proko himself had never had the sand to do such things.

 

Meeting Proko's eyes through his sunglasses, Joey asked around a puff of smoke, "You want one or not?"

 

Wrinkling his nose and leaning away as they sat on his bed, Proko shot back, "Don't think so."

 

" _Pussy_."

 

He'd never heard such a hateful word said in such an affectionate tone.

 

"Since you're gonna be a pussy," Joey was saying, "we're gonna shotgun it."

 

"Shotgun?"

 

Raising one brow over the rim of his shades, Joey asked, "You really didn't have friends before me, did you?"

 

Feeling strangely bold, Proko spat back, " _Fuck you_."

 

"Maybe later."

 

Proko's pretty flush was incredibly telling, though he downplayed it as best he could, leaning closer again and asking, "What's shotgunning?"

 

Blowing an obviously practiced smoke ring, Joey explained, "I take a puff and blow the smoke into your mouth."

 

The flush was back, high in Proko's cheeks when he murmured, "That's practically kissing."

 

"You don't look like the kinda guy who'd have a problem with that." Lifting the cigarette back to his lips, Joey took a long drag, leaning in a bit, immensely pleased when Proko didn't pull away. He had never been the sort to back down from a challenge.

 

Instead, he parted those pretty lips, breathing stolen smoke deep into his own lungs, eyeing his own reflection in Joey's unnecessary sunglasses all the while.

 

When Joey's fingers slid into his hair, nails scraping none-too-gently along his scalp, he shuddered, pulling away to hide his face in the crook of Joey's shoulder, breath dissolving into a coughing fit, acutely aware of the hand the Joey had placed at his lower back.

 

He was hugely disappointed when a door downstairs slammed: His grandmama was home from her shopping excursion. Sighing, Proko murmured, "You need to go. I'm not allowed to have people over if they haven't met my grandmama."

 

"Yeah, not gonna happen." Joey sounded disgusted by the suggestion. Lips brushing Proko's temple as he spoke, he Joey asked, "My place?" His words were more a challenge than an offer.

 

Proko was more than happy to rise to it.

 

-

 

"You're my neighbor?"

 

A scoff, and Joey asked, "You didn't know that?"

 

Though it was slow in coming, Proko eventually admitted, "I don't get out much."

 

"You a dropout, or...?" It was nice to hear Joey sounding so interested, and it took all Proko had not to bask in it. "Never seen you at school."

 

Biting his lip for a moment, Proko slowly said, "I'm homeschooled, actually."

 

"And you live with your grandma, yeah?"

 

"Yeah."

 

Then that familiar, cutting smirk was on Joey's face, and he said, sounding quite smug, "So that's why you talk like an old lady."

 

"I don't--"

 

Leaning back against the iron fence that separated his family's property from the sidewalk, Joey said, " _A **foreign** old lady_."

 

Though Proko opened his mouth to argue, he paused for a moment before he simply muttered, "Can't argue with that part."

 

"Oh?" Despite the summer sun burning above them, Proko shivered under the weight of Joey's mirror-eyed stare. For an instant, he wondered what color the other boy's eyes were when they weren't hidden behind his shades. "Where you from?"

 

"Ukraine." Though he'd been in America for over a decade, it was still difficult to use that name: _Ukrayina_ was always at the tip of his tongue when he spoke of home.

 

"I'm from Bulgaria." Joey shrugged as he said it, hiking one sneakered foot up onto the fence. "Moved here when I was real little, though, so I only remember baby words. _Cat_ and _mom_ and shit like that." He caught Proko's eyes through his shades. "You remember much Ukrainian?"

 

" _I'm still very fluent, actually, even though Grandmama and I don't really use it all that often._ " It took a considerable effort to Proko to hide his little smirk. " _It's my heritage, you know? Seems important to keep it up_."

 

This was all spoken in Ukrainian, and Joey muttered, "Showoff," and punched Proko in the arm.

 

Proko was, naturally, immensely pleased with himself.

 

"You keep looking so smug," Joey said, pulling away from the fence and shoving his hands into the pockets of his oversized basketball shorts, "and imma hit you again."

 

Proko's little smirk just widened at that, and he said, wholeheartedly, "Go for it."

 

"You're a sick fuck, y'know that?"

 

"But you like me."

 

In lieu of an answer, Joey grabbed at Proko's wrist, pulling the other boy through the great iron gates leading into the driveway. At the crest of the gateway was an ornately shaped _K_.

 

 _Kavinsky_ , Proko thought, remembering the tirades of his grandmama's friends. Criminals, degenerates, mobsters. _Martin and Elisaveta and **Joseph** Kavinsky_. **_Joey Kavinsky_**. Proko fought back a shiver as the gate clanged shut behind them. _That's what the K stands for_.

 

It did not, Proko thought, look like a good place for a family. It looked more suited to housing the mob, all dark wood and sheltering trees and secretive little shrubs hiding the windows on the lower floors. If the rumors were to be believed, that was appropriate. It was, however, entirely inappropriate to just up and ask about it. If his grandmama had taught him anything, it was that one simply didn't inquire about family secrets.

 

Pulling open the heavy mahogany door at the top of the stone steps of the front porch, Joey gestured Proko inside, pausing for a moment to press a single finger to his own lips. _Quiet_.

 

Though he raised an eyebrow, Proko followed the instruction, slipping his shoes off in the foyer after Joey did the same.

 

Joey soon had a grip on his wrist again, pulling him out into the main space and up a flight of stairs at the far left. Nearly on tiptoe, they slipped past the study, where a suited older man was arguing over the phone in a language Proko didn't know. Past several empty rooms, with a good deal less care, they came upon a den holding a youngish woman and several bottles of alcohol, many of them already empty, scattered across a glass-topped coffee table. Joey tossed the women a nod, and she raised her glass. Eventually, the boys found themselves in what was doubtlessly Joey's own bedroom.

 

There were pricy clothes and empty soda cans and crumpled papers littering the hardwood floor, and the dresser and several nearby shelves were stacked with odds and ends: Rap CDs and pill bottles and hood ornaments and children's books in languages Proko didn't recognize. Only a battered copy of _Peter Pan_ was in English.

 

The scent of old smoke and burnt rubber and sweat and gasoline and expensive cologne was strangely comforting, wafting in Proko's face as the door closed behind him.

 

The predatory look Joey was giving him was decidedly _not comforting_ , and when he found himself pinned between Joey's chest and the door, he did his best to force out a soft, "I'm not gay, Joey."

 

"Neither am I."

 

It was another challenge: _Can you resist_? With the hand at his nape and the hand at his hip and Joey's chest pressed to his, pinning him to the door, Proko wasn't sure if he could. He wasn't even sure he _wanted to_.

 

He wasn't the sort to take a challenge lying down, though, and despite the vulnerability of his position, he reached down to pluck Joey's sunglasses away, surprised that Joey actually allowed it, merely watching him with warm, autumn-brown eyes.

 

When the hand at his hip slid around to dip into the back pocket of his jeans, Proko shuddered, and Joey asked, his voice soft, "Y'ever been kissed, Ilya?"

 

Biting back a whimper, knowing better than to pull Joey closer, stolen sunglasses still dangling from his fingers, Proko admitted, "Yeah, I have."

 

Kavinsky's brow twitched a bit, irritated, and he asked, "Y'ever been kissed by _another guy_?"

 

Licking his lips, Proko breathed, "No."

 

And Joey leaned in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, sweet Proko. Sheltered, darling Proko with his masochism and his lack of survival instinct and his nonexistent social skills. He's a joy to write <3 And, God almighty, _Joey_. He's a little younger here, and a little softer, and I still just love him to bits. He'll become more himself as the story goes on, don't you worry! 
> 
> Last note: Elisaveta Kavinsky. She's only a background character, but I've always been fascinated by her. She's a horrible person and I'm not trying to justify her awfulness, I'm just trying to explain it somewhat. Keep an eye on her!


	3. Chapter 2

"Anyone ever tell you you kiss like a pit bull?"

 

Two summer nights later, Proko's lips were still throbbing, the lower split wide open. It would have healed, he knew, if he would only let it be. He couldn't. Anytime he touched it, a hot little thrill raced down his spine, and Joey raised a derisive brow at him, a smirk on his own lips.

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Yeah." On his back in the sand, eyes on the starry sky, Proko sighed, lifting one hand to press salty fingers to his lips. The seawater clinging to his fingertips stung the split, and he pressed harder against it. "It kinda hurts."

 

Beside him, eyes half-lidded, sunglasses conspicuously missing, Joey smiled, sharp. He was deadlier than the sharks in the shallows, Proko was sure. Despite the muggy summer heat weighing heavy in his lungs and on his skin, plastering his shirt to his chest, he shivered. "You didn't seem to mind it when it happened."

 

Propping up onto his elbows, Proko met those dark, dark eyes with his own, his voice soft, nearly lost in the roar of the sea when he murmured, "I wouldn't mind it happening again."

 

Joey's smirk was dazzling even by moonlight when he shot back, "Thought you weren't gay?"

 

"Guess that makes us both liars, huh?"

 

-

 

"That boy is a bad influence."

 

" _Grandmama_." It came on a sigh. "You haven't even met him."

 

Taking a long draw from her cigar, Oksana Rozumovskyi regarded her grandson with concerned, curious eyes the same colorless shade as his. "He's making you starry-eyed, Ilya."

 

"It's not _the fifties_ , Grandmama, and this isn't _the old country_." It was a struggle to not sound indignant, and Proko focused instead on the math problem before him. It was frustrating, being homeschooled, mainly because his grandmama didn't believe in summer break. Just for spite, he added, "A boy is allowed to be _starry-eyed_ over whoever he wishes."

 

"Is that so?" A smirk, and Oksana added, "That smart mouth of yours is going to get you hurt someday, Ilya."

 

Then Proko was the one looking smug, quick to point out, "He said the same thing."

 

"This _Joey_ of yours?"

 

 _Of mine_ , Proko agreed, though he dared not say so aloud.

 

Clever as she was, his grandmama seemed to have heard what he didn't say. She always did, and she shook her head, murmuring, "I worry about you, Ilya."

 

"You don't need to." For the moment, it felt true. "I'm happy." That, too, was entirely true. He hadn't been _happy_ for more than a few minutes since his father's death, since his mother had sent him away from their home in Zaporizhia so she could handle the family business without the distraction of a child. It was very lucky her own mother was more willing to allow such a _distraction_ in her life.

 

"That's why I worry." Oksana tapped her cigar against the edge of an empty plate, smudging ash over ivory china and gold leaf. "If life has taught me anything," she said, her voice a lifelong smoker's rasp, "it's that just when a perpetually sad person is happy, it means that life is about to fuck them, _hard_."

 

It was not strange, hearing that word from her. _Fuck_ was, she often told him, the first English word she had learned. It had also been the first English word she'd taught to her grandson.

 

It was a thoroughly useful word, and Proko clicked his tongue, shooting back, "Then fuck life."

 

Cutting off the end of a new cigar fresh from her oak humidor, Oksana smiled, agreeing, "That's the spirit."

 

-

 

It was the shattering of his bedroom window that roused Proko from his dreams a few nights later, and a figure climbing in through it sent him skittering along the bed, pressing his back against the headboard.

 

" _Proko_!"

 

Though it came as an irritable hiss, Proko calmed somewhat, shoving the blankets aside and clicking on his bedside lamp: Only Joey called him _Proko_.

 

Rubbing sleep dust from his eyes, he asked, voice hoarse, "What's going on?"

 

"I need your help."

 

That was, admittedly, not what Proko was expecting, and he stood, crossing the room to stand before Joey, taking pale hands in his. There was a shallow cut along Joey's left palm, where a piece of glass had caught him on his way in, and Proko brought that hand up to press his lips to the wound, tasting copper and salt and sweat.

 

Though Joey met his eyes, he said nothing.

 

Really, the gash along Joey's cheek, and the swelling and dark bruising beneath it were greater cause for concern.

 

Again, Proko asked, "What's going on?"

 

The gun Joey pulled from the back of his basketball shorts was answer enough.

 

-

 

"I'm gonna kill him." The words came as a low growl, and Joey flung himself down on Proko's bed, the gun still in hand, glittering in the dim light from the bedside lamp.

 

Gingerly, Proko sat beside him, asking, " _Who_?"

 

" _My father_." Another growl.

 

Slowly, so, so cautiously, Proko slid the gun out of Joey's hands, surprised at the lack of resistance. It was a slick, shiny revolver, lacking any identifying marks save the words _dream_ _killer_ engraved on the barrel. Lifting one brow, Proko asked, "Where did you even get this?"

 

" _My dreams_."

 

His eyes falling to Joey again, who was watching him back with those dark, dark eyes, Proko asked, "He must have hit you pretty hard, huh?"

 

"It's not like that." Propping up on his elbows, Joey studied Proko's face for a moment. Then, softly, he said, "I _dreamed_ it, and I brought it out of the dream when I woke up."

 

Still looking entirely dubious, Proko said, "That's impossible."

 

"Nothing's impossible." Judging by the firm set of Joey's mouth and the stubborn crease of his eyebrows, he fully believed it. "I've been doing it since I was a kid."

 

Glancing down to study his reflection in the side of the gun's barrel, Proko asked, "How?"

 

"Not really sure." Joey shrugged as best he could, flopping down again and folding his hands over his stomach. "I _see_ what I want, I _feel_ it, and _I **take** it_." Another failed shrug. "That's all there is to it, really."

 

"Does it work?"

 

"The gun, y'mean?" With surprising care, Joey reclaimed the gun, gently pulling it from Proko's clutching fingers. Then, with no care at all, not even bothering to sit up, he aimed the gun at what remained of the window, cocked it, and pulled the trigger.

 

Proko's startled, " _Jesus_!," was all but drowned out in the sound of shattering glass. The gun itself made no sound at all.

 

"It works." When Joey held the gun out again, Proko took it back again, doing his best to hide the shaking of his hands. "There aren't any bullets in it, _but it works_."

 

Carefully clicking the chamber open-- It was, in fact, empty-- Proko mirrored Joey's action and pulled the trigger.

 

-

 

"Ilya!"

 

At his grandmama's voice, Proko shoved the gun beneath his pillow, shoulders going stiff as Oksana pulled open his bedroom door.

 

Dressed in her robe and slippers, her hair a silvery cascade down her back, she glared with colorless eyes and simply said, " _The window_." It was a command.

 

"I broke it."

 

Proko cast a surprised glance at Joey, eyes wide, and Oksana followed his gaze, looking far less surprised than her grandson did.

 

"No one answered the door," Joey was saying, his voice perfectly even. He was a good liar. It was strangely intriguing. "So I tried the window instead, but _Ilya_ here sleeps like the dead."

 

That last part, at least, was true.

 

Lifting one drawn-on brow, Oksana pursed her lips. She clearly wasn't falling for Joey's story, and her expression made it obvious that she had already judged him as being _not worth her time_. Sparing a quick glance to her grandson, she said, "Come morning, Ilya, you _will_ explain this. Is that understood?"

 

"Yes, ma'am."

 

A curt nod to Joey, and she stepped out, the door clicking closed behind her, her footsteps soft and light as they disappeared down the hallway.

 

Under his breath, Joey muttered, " _Auspicious_."

 

Pale eyes meeting dark ones again, Proko asked, "What?"

 

" _An auspicious first meeting_ ," Joey said with a shrug. He tossed his arm across Proko's hips, pillowing his head on the other boy's lap. "I'm not stupid, y'know."

 

"I never said--"

 

Dark eyes slipping closed, Joey muttered, "Everyone thinks it."

 

That one act, that _closing of eyes,_ was such a _trusting_ gesture that Proko was very nearly overwhelmed by it. Very carefully, he slid his fingers into dark hair, carding through fussily gelled spikes. His voice soft and secret, he admitted, "I don't think it."

 

Curling closer, his voice muffled against Proko's pajama bottoms, Joey murmured, "I know you don't."

 

-

 

The knock at the front door a short while later startled Joey more than it did Proko, and he glared hard at the bedroom door, reaching around Proko's hips to grab at the gun stuffed beneath the pillow, glancing up when Proko touched his wrist.

 

"You don't think it's...?" Proko trailed off. Then, sighing, he eased himself free of Joey's grip and stood, sliding the revolver back beneath his pillow. He sincerely hoped Joey would leave it there. Proko was not a fan of guns. His father's death had destroyed their allure for him. "I'm gonna see who it is."

 

"It's middle of the goddamn night, who else could it be?"

 

It was odd, hearing Joey sounding so concerned, and Proko leaned in to press a soft kiss to his bruised cheek, saying, "It'll be fine."

 

He left before Joey could try to stop him.

 

Leaving the door open, Proko crept down the hall, past his grandmama's room, saying softly, in case she'd fallen asleep, "I've got it." Then he made his way to the staircase at the end of the hall, tiptoeing along the varnished wood floor, cool and smooth beneath his bare feet.

 

Down the stairs, past the sitting room and into the foyer, he did his best to see through the frosted glass side panels lining the front door.

 

From the other side, someone cleared their throat, impatient.

 

This was not _Martin_ Kavinsky, at the very least, and so Proko opened the door, fanning in the scent of expensive perfume and warm alcohol.

 

The woman who stood on the other side was vaguely familiar. Proko recognized the dark, angry set of the eyebrows, the straight nose, the dangerous flash of the eyes, though hers were blue instead of the autumnal brown he was used to. She was young, though: She couldn't have been more than thirty years old, though her eyes spoke of age beyond her age.

 

Softly, Proko asked, "Mrs. Kavinsky?"

 

" _Elisaveta_."

 

"Elisaveta," Proko agreed, offering his hand. "I'm Ilya Prokopenko."

 

Sparing him only the briefest of glances, ignoring his offered handshake entirely, Elisaveta slid past him and into the house, calling, "Joseph?" With her accent, the name sounded exotic and beautiful. As strongly as she smelled of alcohol, it was a wonder her words were not slurred. She must have been used to inebriation.

 

There was a marching of footsteps down the stairs, and Joey stepped into the foyer, face stony, eyes sharp. His dreamt-up gun was conspicuously absent.

 

In her accented, smoke-ravaged voice, Elisaveta said, "We're leaving."

 

"I'm staying the night."

 

"We are _leaving_ , Joseph." It was a command. " _Now_."

 

Tossing a glance at Proko, Joey asked, "Why?" He flinched a bit when his mother's fingertips traced the gash along his cheekbone. She did not do so gently.

 

Meeting brown eyes with blue ones, Elisaveta replied with a question of her own: "Do you need any more reason than this?"

 

-

 

"He's leaving."

 

Glancing up from her coffee, Oksana asked, "Your Joey?"

 

"Grandmama, he isn't _mine_."

 

"If he's leaving," Oksana agreed, "I suppose he isn't."

 

Pursing his lips and placing his fork aside, Proko met his grandmama's eyes. When he was certain he had her attention, he said, gingerly, "I want to go with him."

 

"Is that so?"

 

"He came in the window in the middle of the night _just to talk_." It was rather sad, really. "He's got no one else, Grandmama. I _need_ to go with him."

 

"He _shot in_ your bedroom window in the middle of the night." Oksana sounded distinctly unimpressed, dark lipstick smearing the edge of her coffee cup when she took a sip from it. "It's no wonder he has no one else."

 

A heavy sigh: " _Grandmama_..."

 

Her drawn-on brows furrowing a bit, Oksana asked, "Does he want you to go with him?"

 

The pause that came next was a heavy one, and Proko sighed into it. _Did Joey want him to come along_? To be honest, he didn't much _care_ if Joey wanted him along. _He wanted_ to come along, more than he'd wanted anything in a long time.

 

Another sigh, and he stood, his breakfast forgotten, and he said, not bothering to meet his grandmama's eyes, "I've got a call to make."

 

-

 

"You wanna come with me?"

 

"Of course I do." It came out before Proko had even given himself permission to respond, and he mentally scolded himself. He had far too little control of himself when Joey was involved. "I can't just leave you on your own."

 

He could practically hear the smirk in Joey's voice when he replied, "You worried about me?"

 

"Always." It was the truth. They'd known each other for barely a week, but all that week, Proko had been intensely focused, not adrift in his thoughts as per usual. It was disorienting, and he loved it. He couldn't let it go. He couldn't let _Joey_ go. "And I wanna go with you. Someone's gotta keep you in line."

 

For a long moment, Joey was silent, the television broadcasting some sort of race in the background. Then, softly, he asked, "You're seriously _that_ worried about me, babe?"

 

 _Babe_. It sent a little shiver down Proko's spine, and he admitted, "I am, yeah."

 

"Did you ask your grandma yet?"

 

"We've talked about it," Proko admitted, "but she kind of asked a question I couldn't answer."

 

"What question?"

 

Biting at his lip for a moment, Proko eventually asked, "Do you want me to go with you?"

 

There was another pause, and a heavy _fwump_ , as if Joey were flopping back on his bed. _A_ bed, anyway. Was he even still at the mansion? Proko had no idea.

 

"I think," Joey said, sounding oddly hesitant, "I'd be kinda bored without you." Then the vulnerability was gone from his voice, and he said, "If your grandma's gonna say _no_ , I can always dream up a copy of her that'll say _yes_."

 

Swallowing down a bit of anger and more than a bit of disgust, Proko replied, "I don't think you could dream up a whole person." He still had a hard time believing Joey could _dream_ at all, really. The impossible revolver that still rested under his pillow, though, made it hard _not_ to believe. "A gun is one thing, but _a whole person_..."

 

"Just gotta practice, is all." There was a rustling of fabric: Joey was shrugging, Proko was sure. "Mom says this _Henrietta_ \--" The name came on a sneer. "--place is on a ley line, too, so it should be easier to dream there than it is here."

 

Furrowing his brow and leaning back into the mountain of pillows at the head of his bed, Proko asked, " _A ley line_?"

 

" _An energy line._ A magical powerline, sorta." Joey didn't seem particularly sure of that explanation, though he didn't take it back. "Makes it easier for pulling shit through to this side."

 

"And how does your mother know about it?"

 

"'Cause it's the last thing she needs to be around." Joey sounded less than enthused. "It's the perfect place to hide."

 

Turning his eyes to the ceiling, Proko asked, "Why is that?"

 

"'Cause dreaming's the last thing she needs to do."

 

To hide a gasp, Proko asked, "She can do it, too?"

 

"Kinda." The volume of the race in the background dropped a bit. "She brought a nightmare through to this world when I was little, though, and she doesn't dream anymore, if she can help it." A huff of humorless laughter, and Joey added, "I've still got the scar."

 

"Is that why she drinks?" Proko found himself asking. It was bad manners, he knew, but Joey tended to appreciate him saying whatever popped into his mind. "To keep the dreams away?"

 

Another scoff, and Joey pointed out, "Doesn't really work for me, though."

 

-

 

"I'm going with him, Grandmama."

 

"Are you now?" There was a trace of laughter in Oksana's voice, a thick cigar held between her teeth. Sprawled along a chaise longue, there was something incomparably elegant about her. It was one of the few traits she hadn't passed to her grandson.

 

Proko swallowed a bit of jealousy, squaring his shoulders as best he could. Making his voice as steely as he could manage, " _I am_."

 

Taking the cigar in hand, Oksana snuffed it in the crystal ashtray on the end table. The den soon smelled thoroughly of thick, noxious smoke, soaking into the chaise and the rug and the ceiling-high bookshelves lining the walls. Proko found it oddly comforting. "I was unaware," she said, pulling her feet to the floor and patting the seat beside her, "that you'd asked the person in control of your trust fund if doing such a thing was acceptable."

 

Stifling a sigh, Proko settled at his grandmama's side on the velveteen chaise, meeting her eyes with his own, the same exact shade of frosty barely-blue. "Grandmama, _please_. I _need_ to go with him."

 

Looking distinctly disbelieving, Oksana repeated, "You _need_ it?"

 

"I do."

 

Turning, Oksana slid a single well-manicured finger beneath her grandson's chin, her eyes narrowed in thought. Then she asked, "Are you doing this of your own accord, or is he talking you into doing it?"

 

"I'm doing this _for me_." It was mostly true. _If I don't keep an eye on him_ , he didn't say, _I'll go mad_. "I want to stay with him." Proko gently tugged her hand from his face and into his lap. "Grandmama, please. I've never asked for anything before, so just…" He sighed, the sound soft and shaky. " _Please_."

 

" _Please_." Despite her little smile, Oksana sounded disgusted. "Since when do Rozumovskyis say _please_?"

 

"I'm not a Rozumovskyi," Proko pointed out, and his grandmama's smile turned soft.

 

He was right, and he was certain she knew it. Rozumovskyis didn't have the protective urge over their loved ones that Prokopenkos did. Rozumovskyis, in fact, had a very difficult time _loving_ at all. That had been part of why Kalyna had sent her son away. Ilya was too much like Mykhayl; He loved too deeply and far too soon. He loved Joey as Mykhayl loved Kalyna. With luck, he wouldn't end the same way his father had.

 

Though his eyes were not his father's eyes, Ilya's passion was his father's passion when he said, as sure as he had ever sounded, "My name is Prokopenko."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True story: Oksana learning "fuck" as her first English word was taken from an uncle of mine who came over from Taiwan in 1986
> 
> Also, I really hope the use of K's first name isn't terribly jarring. Just keep in mind that he's younger here, and as the story progresses his name does the same
> 
> Oh, and we got more of Oksana and Elisaveta! How're you guys liking them? Personally, I really adore Oksana. She's so fun to write! She's actually based somewhat on my own grandma, who has the distinction of having been a ballerina and a cop and a daycare provider and a single mother of eight. She's an amazing lady :)


	4. Chapter 3

"It's _so fucking **small**_."

 

"I think it's charming."

 

" _Charming_." It came out sounding like a curse, and walking along at Proko's side down the tree-lined streets of Henrietta, Joey said, "You spend too much time with your grandma, man. You talk like an old lady."

 

Though he smiled, Proko's eyes rolled just the same. "I could always talk like a thug, if that's any better."

 

"Nah." Joey's smile was a wide, bright thing, catching the midmorning sun. It was _dazzling_. "Talking like a thug's my thing."

 

"Fair enough."

 

Clicking his tongue, Joey asked, "So where you gonna stay?" He didn't sound as if he cared either way. Proko knew better. When Joey Kavinsky pretended to be disinterested, it meant the exact opposite. He was startlingly easy to read at times. "You're at that shitty li'l B&B right now, yeah?"

 

"I'm gonna be in the dorms once school starts up," Proko said with a shrug. "Not looking forward to having a roommate, but I'll be okay."

 

"That's gotta suck." Lighting up something that was clearly not a run-of-the-mill cigarette, Joey took a long drag, stuffing his lighter back into the pocket of his jeans. Without giving Proko so much as a glance, he said, "There's enough room at the new house for you to stay with us."

 

Tipping his head back to watch a few curls of silvery smoke vanish into the air, Proko asked, "How would your mother feel about that?"

 

A scoff, and Joey shot back, "It's fucking _huge_ , man. She wouldn't even know you were there."

 

Ignoring the little bubble of warmth growing in his chest, Proko caught Joey's eyes through those horrible shades, asking, "You inviting me to move in with you, Joey?"

 

Wrinkling his nose a bit, Joey shot back, "Sounds kinda gay when you say it like that."

 

Stepping off the sidewalk and onto the gravel of a grubby pizza restaurant's parking lot, Proko replied, "I don't hear you taking it back."

 

"I don't hear _you_ accepting."

 

Holding the door open so Joey could step into the restaurant before him, Proko said, "We barely know each other. It hasn't even been two weeks. I can't _live with you_ when--"

 

"But you'd follow me all the way here?"

 

It was a fair point, and Proko bit at his lip for a moment, saying nothing.

 

Joey rolled his eyes. "Babe," he said, ignoring the hostess when she approached them, menus in hand, "you'd follow me anywhere." It was entirely true, and they both knew it. "Why not follow me home, too?"

 

-

 

"All of your school supplies have been taken care of?"

 

Oksana's voice was staticky over the phone, and Proko winced, flopping back onto his bed in his mostly-empty dorm room. It was small and rather utilitarian, only holding two beds, two dressers, a pair of nightstands and a shared closet, but it would do just fine. _Just because you have money_ , Oksana had told him a thousand times over, _doesn't mean you should spend it on frivolities_. His roommate had yet to show up, and he basked in his last few hours of solitude, his grandmama's voice the only sound in the room.

 

"Yes, Grandmama. All the paperwork's been taken care of, too: I'm officially in the system, and I'm set up in the dorms and everything."

 

Oksana, of course, was not satisfied, asking next, "Have you been getting enough sleep?"

 

Fighting back a sigh, Proko obediently replied, "Yes, Grandmama."

 

"Are you actually planning to study--"

 

" _Yes_ , Grandmama."

 

"--Or are you simply planning on fawning over _your Joey_ instead?"

 

Biting at his lower lip, Proko let that long-held sigh slip. He couldn't lie to his grandmama; It was _unconscionable_. And so he simply said nothing.

 

Oksana had gone silent, too, before she gave a sigh of her own, the sound fuzzy over the phone. Very softly, almost to herself, she said, "I was afraid of that."

 

-

 

"I don't get what's so great about this school, anyway." It came on a sullen, indignant grumble, Joey's hands at his own throat as he struggled with his tie. "Uptight fucking--"

 

"It's kind of exclusive," Proko replied, gently swatting Joey's hands away to fix his tie. Joey was just making it worse. Proko, however, had vast experience knotting ties: They had been part of his mother's hard-enforced dress code. "You have to have good grades to get in."

 

To that, Joey just raised a dismissive eyebrow. That look said, quite clearly, that he'd barely been passing, if he'd been passing at all.

 

Giving a soft huff of laughter, Proko agreed, "I guess having a lotta money probably helps, too."

 

"Prob'ly, yeah." Grabbing at Proko's perfectly knotted tie, looping the striped silk around his fist, Joey dragged him in for a kiss, murmuring against his lips, "For luck."

 

Though Proko returned the kiss, he was quick to point out, "I don't need luck. I actually had good grades."

 

"Yeah, fuck you." There was no venom in Joey's voice, only laughter. "Still can't believe they're making us come in for _half a day_. It's dumb as Hell." As they entered the auditorium where the freshman and transfer students were to have their orientation, Joey's eyes rolled. Without his sunglasses, it was doubly obvious that he either hadn't slept or he'd gotten high before coming in. Proko put the thought out of his mind as best he could. "Can't we just skip it?"

 

"If we skip it," Proko reasoned, taking hold of Joey's arm and tugging him further inside, "you won't know what to do or where to go once classes start up."

 

Reason was, of course, lost on Joey, and his eyes rolled again.

 

It was, at least, cool inside the auditorium, and the boys took a pair of seats near the back, in a sea of their like. It was disconcerting, not knowing anyone, and Proko sank down into his seat as much as he could, though his height made it a thoroughly futile effort.

 

At his side, Joey was oblivious. "Hate these uniforms," he mumbled, tugging at his tie, shooting Proko a dirty look when his hands were gently swatted back down.

 

Holding Joey's hands captive in his lap, Proko met those dark eyes with his own, saying simply, "You look dapper."

 

"I look queer."

 

Then it was Proko's eyes rolling, and he muttered, "You kissed me before we came in, Joey. Of course you're queer."

 

If looks could kill, the frigid glare Joey gave him for that would have stopped Proko's heart, and he shivered, biting his lip to stifle a needy whimper. The way Joey's eyes darted down to his mouth, heavy-lidded and dark, sent a shiver racing up his spine, and despite the presence of the other students, Proko was immensely glad of the possessive hand Joey kept pressed to the back of his neck through the rest of the orientation.

 

-

 

"Is that..." Joey trailed off, staring hard through the lenses of his sunglasses at one of the many brick buildings littering the Aglionby campus. The teacher leading their tour group didn't notice at all when Joey and Proko fell behind. "Borden...?"

 

Sighing, Proko was quick to point out, "If you took off the shades, you could probably read the sign a lot easier."

 

It was the truth, of course.

 

The sky above them was dotted with angry-looking clouds, heavy and low, threating rain at any moment. It was a wonder Joey could even see where he was going.

 

"Or you could just tell me if that's the Borden building or not."

 

Sighing, Proko said, "It _is_ , but--"

 

"See?" Tossing an arm around Proko's shoulders, though it required Proko to stoop a bit, they staggered forward, Joey's smirk wild and triumphant, following the sound of their classmates, Proko hoping that they were the same classmates they had begun the tour with.

 

Blocking the door to the Borden building, however, was a group of students idling for their between-class break, and at their center was fourth boy, dark and lovely, smaller than all the members of the little crowd that had gathered around him. He didn't seem to be the least bit intimidated by them: He leaned against one boy's side, murmuring to another, tangling his fingers into the hair of the third.

 

Instantly, Proko was fascinated.

 

Apparently, Joey was, too, grabbing Proko by the sleeve of his pristine uniform shirt and dragging him to the door. Shoving through the entourage to the boy at its center, Joey came to stand face-to-face with him. More or less, anyway: The other boy was tiny, barely coming up to Joey's shoulder, and Joey wasn't exactly tall himself.

 

Despite the fact that Joey was _looming_ over him, this boy actually had the gall to look amused. Meeting Joey's eyes with his own-- They were a startling amber color, a few shades darker than raw honey-- he smiled, sweet and teasing. Then he asked, "You're not from 'round here, are you?" Though his accent was unmistakably Southern, he clearly wasn't a Henrietta native. They didn't make such pretty, delicate things in Henrietta.

 

"Doesn't sound like you are, either." There was a challenge in Joey's voice, sharp. "Deep South?" Somehow, he managed to make it sound like dirty talk.

 

"Mm-hmm." Leaning closer, eyes still locked on Joey's, the other boy said, his voice soft and honey-sweet, "And you sound like Jersey trash."

 

-

 

Sighing, tipping his head back against the wall of the corridor outside the Dean's office, Proko asked, "Did you really need to start a fight?"

 

"Don't I always?"

 

Proko tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice when he asked, " _Do you_?"

 

Dropping his gaze to his bruised, bloodied hand, Joey murmured, his voice soft and grim, "I am my father's son."

 

-

 

"D'you think they're gon' expel him?"

 

The corridor in front of the Dean's office was hugely, immensely quiet, and Proko had no choice but to glance up to the source of the interruption.

 

Settled in the third of the six wooden chairs lining the hall, one empty seat between them, was the boy Joey had so thoroughly failed to intimidate. The three boys who had been with him during the confrontation were seated on his other side, all in various states of pain and distress, though he himself looked as utterly flawless as he had before. His little entourage had taken the blows for him.

 

"It's orientation day," he was saying. "They might just chalk it up to stress."

 

"If he's lucky," Proko agreed. He got the feeling Joey was rarely lucky.

 

Turning sideways in his chair, the boy offered his hand, saying with I'm smile, "I'm Lafayette Swan."

 

"Ilya Prokopenko." Proko returned the handshake. "You can just call me Proko, if you like."

 

"And your friend?"

 

"Kavinsky." It was Joey himself who had said it, striding from the Dean's office with a triumphant smirk on his face, shooting a sharp glance at Swan's friends, though his eyes were soft and wanting when they found Swan himself.

 

Standing, Proko asked, "Joey, are you--"

 

Joey shot him down with a clipped, "Don't call me that. Everyone uses family names here." He was fishing for approval, it seemed. It was strangely cute. "Just _Kavinsky_."

 

"Okay, fine, _Kavinsky_ \--" Proko let the name roll off his tongue in a way that sent a faint flush creeping in at the tips of Joey's ears and a smirk over both their lips. "--are they gonna expel you?"

 

"Nah, school's not even started yet." Joey tossed an arm around Proko's shoulders, and against Proko's ear, he purred, immensely satisfied with himself, "They can't even punish me."

 

Still seated, just loud enough to be heard, Swan tutted, "What a shame."

 

-

 

"He's pretty popular, isn't he?" There was something very much like envy in Kavinsky's voice, shoulders carelessly hunched, arms crossed over the top of the desk while he watched Swan from the back of the Calculus classroom. There was a different group of students around him, and he seemed equally at ease with them. They seemed equally worshipful of him.

 

"He seems nice enough," Proko said with a shrug. Unlike Kavinsky, he was attempting to focus on the welcome speech the professor was giving at the front of the room.

 

Turning to meet Proko's eyes over his shoulder, Kavinsky said, "He'd be good to have around." Proko ignored a pang of jealousy as best he could. "I hear he's been here since he was a freshman. He knows his way around."

 

Suppressing a sigh, not bothering to look away from the teacher, Proko pointed out, "If you'd paid attention during orientation, you'd know your own way around."

 

"Y'know, that pretty mouth--"

 

"Is gonna get me killed some day?" Proko smiled when Kavinsky tossed an irritated little smirk at him. "Yeah, I know."

 

-

 

"You really want him?"

 

"'Course I do."

 

Proko was grateful for the rain pattering down around them on the Aglionby courtyard; It was strangely good at cooling his anger, though it did nothing for his intense jealousy. That envious streak was one of the few traits his mother had passed on to him, and he cursed her for a moment before he asked, " _Why_?"

 

"Have you looked at him?"

 

Though it sounded arrogant, Proko found himself asking just the same, "Have you looked at _me_?"

 

The look Joey-- _Kavinsky_ , he told himself. Not Joey. The look _Kavinsky_ gave him at that sent a shiver racing down his spine. Barely audible, Kavinsky murmured, "Every goddamn day."

 

"And you'd still rather have him?"

 

As they stepped onto the damp asphalt of the parking lot, Kavinsky asked, looking amused, "You jealous, babe?"

 

"Very." Adjusting the straps of his bookbag, Proko sighed, "I gotta get to the dorm. My roommate's supposed to be moving in after class."

 

"You don't need to have a roommate, y'know." Turning, Kavinsky rested his weight against the hood of his car, a glorious, hideous Mitsubishi, pure white and glimmering even in the half-light, propping one foot up on the bumper. The sneakers he wore clashed with his school uniform. "You could always come stay at my place."

 

Parked next to the Mitsu was Proko's silvery Golf, and he climbed onto the hood, uncaring of the rain. He was already soaked through anyway. "That's not fair."

 

"What's not?"

 

"You can't offer to let me stay with you when you've been flirting with other guys."

 

Despite the overcast sky, Kavinsky slid on his sunglasses, asking, " _Other guys_?"

 

"Aren't we...?" Proko trailed off. He knew better than to ask, really, but his mouth had always tended to run off with him when Kavinsky was around to listen.

 

Looking vaguely disgusted, Kavinsky shot back, " _Are we_?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Swan is here! :D He's my baby. Well, all the pack boys are my babies, but I hold Swan especially close. He's a doll. Plus, I wanted to make him different. Y'ever noticed that in media, black guys are almost always the strong, silent type? And they all seem to be very large and intimidating and speak in that inner city sorta way? Not Swan. Not at all. He is a special snowflake and I love him.
> 
> Also, way to break Proko's fragile little heart, Joey -.- You dick.
> 
> And a warning: There's gonna be a bit longer a wait that usual for the next chapter due to Christmas. The library, naturally, will be closed, but when it opens again on the twenty-seventh, the next chapter will come!


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of smut in this chapter. I'm not really comfortable writing such things for characters so young, so I've kept it quite mild.

Just off the cluster of Aglionby administration buildings were the dormitories, a honeycomb of smaller structures filled with busy raven boys and their incessant chatter. Proko was very grateful that he had been relegated to the Lancaster building, one of the smaller dorms, a fine old brick building all covered in ivy, housing probably less than twenty students.

 

It reminded him of home, almost, of the factory back in Zaporizhia. His mother was probably there right now, and her new husband, and little Yelena--

 

Sighing, Proko put the thought of them out of his mind, using his keycard to open the front door and step into the bustling dormitory.

 

His room was on the second floor, the third down the hall, and he was rather surprised to find the door unlocked and standing open.

 

Cautiously stepping in, he called, "Hello?"

 

"Oh, hey!" The voice was surprisingly familiar, and Lafayette Swan soon appeared from the suite's bathroom, a stack of soft-looking, pale purple towels in hand. "You my roommate, then?"

 

"Looks that way."

 

"Yeah, sorry for the delayed arrival." Swan didn't sound sorry at all. "I was staying with a few friends over the summer, so I thought it only fair to help 'em move in." Proko couldn't even make himself look the slightest bit enthusiastic, and Swan furrowed his brow, asking, "What's wrong?"

 

 _There were worse roommates_ , Proko supposed, and settling at the edge of his bed, he muttered, "It's nothing."

 

Setting the towels aside on his own as-yet-unmade bed, Swan murmured, "You're not a very good liar."

 

It was entirely true, Proko knew, but his eyes rolled just the same.

 

For a long moment, Swan just watched him with those big honey-colored eyes. Then he moved closer, sitting beside Proko on the bed, their thighs and shoulders touching. Proko was surprised neither of them flinched at the contact. "This is about Kavinsky being into me, isn't it?" Swan asked.

 

"He isn't _into you_." It came out more defensively than Proko had intended, and he flopped down onto the mattress, groaning and pressing the heels of his hands against his closed eyes.

 

"Y'know," Swan said, sounding surprisingly concerned, "I can steer clear of him, if you think that'd help."

 

"It wouldn't make a difference." It hurt to admit that. "He _likes_ you, and..." Proko trailed off, dropping his hands to the sheets and lifting his eyes to the ceiling. It was ridiculous, he knew, to be so jealous, but he couldn't seem to stave it off. _Envy is a sin_ , his mother's voice said to him. Just for spite, Proko let the jealousy wash over him.

 

After a moment's hesitation, Swan said, tentatively, "I can turn him off, if you want."

 

"No, you can't." Sliding his fingers along the cotton of his sheets, Proko sighed again. "He's stubborn. He'll just chase you harder if you try to turn him off."

 

Biting at his lower lip for a moment, Swan nodded. Solemnity didn't suit him. Giving a sigh of his own, he too fell back onto the bed, turning his head to meet Proko's eyes. "For what it's worth," he said, "I'm sorry."

 

"Don't be." Proko was a bit surprised at himself. "He's the asshole here, not you."

 

-

 

"You look terrible." Proko shouldn't have cared, he knew. If Kavinsky didn't care about his jealousy, he didn't deserve Proko's concern. "What happened?" he asked in spite of himself.

 

Smiling despite his busted lip, Kavinsky simply said, " _Lynch_." There was pride in his voice, and Proko scowled, turning away and stalking his way across the courtyard.

 

"Proko!" It was half a command.

 

Prokopenko, however, ignored it.

 

" _Proko_!" This time, the merriment was gone from Kavinsky's voice, and he was soon at Proko's side, demanding, "You ignoring me?"

 

"Obviously."

 

Kavinsky didn't really seem to mind, simply asking, "Why?"

 

"Go ask _Lynch_." The name sounded like a curse. "Or _Swan_."

 

" _Oh_." Kavinsky sounded far more amused than he had any right to. "You really are jealous, huh?"

 

"I'm not--"

 

"Jealous little bitch."

 

Somehow, it sounded like a term of endearment, and Proko cursed himself for flushing over it.

 

Kavinsky, of course, noticed. He could be annoyingly observant sometimes. "What," he asked, "you like that?"

 

"Of course not." Proko averted his eyes, striding towards the administrative buildings without waiting to see if Kavinsky was following. He knew perfectly well that he was. "That's a terrible thing to call someone."

 

"Even though you're blushing like a schoolgirl?"

 

"Fuck you."

 

A smirk, and Kavinsky said, "After class, maybe."

 

The blush darkened.

 

-

 

He had not, in fact, waited until their classes wrapped up.

 

He had, in fact, hauled Proko into an unoccupied restroom, pressing them chest-to-chest against the door. Against Proko's lips, he said, "I'm not gonna fuck you."

 

It was nothing short of vastly disappointing.

 

Rolling his eyes at Proko's pretty pout, Kavinsky said, his voice low and rough, "Not yet, anyway." Proko shivered when Kavinsky pressed closer, purring at his ear, "I'm gonna suck your dick, and you're gonna be damn grateful. Understand?"

 

"Yes." Proko shuddered at the sound of his own voice, lust-dark and husky, pushing his hips against Kavinsky's hands when they came to rest at the zipper of his uniform trousers.

 

"And you're gonna forget all this Swan shit, too. Yes?"

 

Breathless and soft, whimpering when his zipper hissed, Proko agreed, " _Yes_."

 

A smirk, and Kavinsky dropped to his knees right there on the tile.

 

-

 

"You look happy."

 

 _Happy_ was an understatement, and Proko gave a great, pleased sigh as he flopped down onto his bed.

 

Undoing his tie, his smile brilliant, Swan asked, "You and Kavinsky made up, I guess?"

 

"You could say that."

 

Settling at Proko's side, Swan asked, his smile teasing, "Baby's first orgasm?"

 

"With someone else, yes." Proko knew his own hand well, and he'd made out with his fair share of girls, but guys were harder to come by. His track record was, with other boys, at least, nonexistent. He had plans to remedy that.

 

Swan made an obscene jerking gesture next, and Proko surprised himself by laughing out loud. Unperturbed, Swan asked, "So...?"

 

Proko's flush was brilliant, and he lifted a hand to his mouth, shyly meeting Swan's eyes.

 

Swan, naturally, understood. "Ah," he said, smiling fondly, "that's always a good time."

 

"Mm-hmm."

 

"God, you're still glowing!" Reaching down to run his fingers through Proko's hair, the touch strangely intimate and strangely welcome, Swan asked, "So, are you two _together_ , or...?"

 

Biting at his lower lip, still tasting stolen smoke, Proko murmured, "I'm not sure." It hurt to admit it. "I think he's still a little in denial over liking guys."

 

"Lotta guys are," Swan said with a shrug. Then, clearly to lighten the mood, he added, "There's a party this weekend. First of the year. Carruthers's parents are outta town, and he's pretty much inviting everyone. You wanna--"

 

He was cut off by a knock at the door, and a familiar voice calling, "Open up!"

 

When Swan called back, "It's open!," Proko dragged his pillow over his face, muffling a half-giggle into the fabric.

 

As Kavinsky stepped into the room, a pretty smirk came over Swan's face, and he asked, "You gon' make an honest man of our li'l Proko, or am I gon' have to do it myself?"

 

Casting a quick glance at Proko, who was still half-hidden beneath his pillow, Kavinsky simply said, " _He's mine_."

 

"But you're still looking at me?" There was a challenge in Swan's voice, clear as day. "That's not really fair to Proko, is it?"

 

Finally emerging from beneath the pillow, Proko hissed, " _Swan_!"

 

"If you're not gon' say it, _I will_." It was a sound defense, at least, and, pleased with himself when Proko didn't argue, Swan turned his attention to Kavinsky, saying, "He's a sweetheart. He deserves better than to have you walking all over him."

 

Stepping closer, Kavinsky, too, settled on Proko's bed, and Proko nuzzled at his thigh, shivering when calloused fingers slid along his throat, tracing his collarbone to wrap around his neck, thumb pressing into the hollow. "'Case you hadn't noticed," Kavinsky said, a toothy smirk on his face, dark eyes on Swan, "he _likes_ being walked all over."

 

-

 

"D'you really like him treating you like that?"

 

Proko was a little impressed that Swan had had the self-control to wait until the next afternoon to ask. Though it was obvious what he meant, Proko asked, "Like _what_?"

 

"Like _he owns you_."

 

Thoroughly aware of the other boys milling about the courtyard, Proko admitted, "I do, yeah." His voice was nearly drowned out by the chattering of his classmates. "No one's ever really _liked_ me before, and for someone to want me as much as Joey does..." He trailed off, flushing a bit.

 

"It's a thrill," Swan agreed. "There's nothing better."

 

"You would know." It was surprisingly difficult for Proko to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Everyone wants you."

 

"Everyone wants _to fuck me_ ," Swan corrected. "It's not the same thing."

 

"Do you let them?" Proko asked, surprising himself. "Fuck you, I mean."

 

A sly little smirk, and Swan said, glancing up at Proko through the thick fringe of his lashes, "Usually. I'm kind of a slut." There was no shame in his voice, and he winked when Proko laughed at him. Then he shrugged, adding, "Gets me invited to a lotta parties, anyway."

 

"Oh."

 

It came out sounding oddly faint, and as they walked across the grass, Swan bumped his shoulder against Proko's arm, asking, "You wanna come? To Carruthers's, I mean. You could bring Kavinsky, I bet."

 

Again, "Oh."

 

For a long moment, Swan was silent. Then, a knowing smile came over his face, and he asked, "You _have_ been to a party before, haven't you?"

 

Feigning indignance, Proko said, "Of course I have!"

 

"When you were six?"

 

Sullen, Proko muttered, "Seven, actually. But my English was terrible at the time, so no one wanted to talk to me."

 

"I'll make sure someone talks to you this time."

 

"If I'm going with Kavinsky--"

 

"Someone else!" Swan laughed.

 

"If I'm going with Kavinsky," Proko said again, "I won't wanna talk to anyone else."

 

Swan's pretty eyes went a bit wide at that, and with a tiny smile, he asked, "You really _do_ belong to him, don'cha?"

 

With a little smile of his own, soft and shy, Proko said, "I'd like to think so."

 

-

 

"This is tame as Hell." Kavinsky sounded disappointed, though Proko didn't agree: This was far wilder than the last party he'd gone to. Of course, the last party he'd gone to had been at a Chuck E. Cheese, and he'd simply hidden in a plastic tunnel until his grandmama had come looking for him.

 

He prayed she wouldn't find out he had been in a place like this.

 

The music blasting through the Carruthers's manicured back lawn was ear-splitting, alcohol passed around, dancing far lewder than dancing had any right to be.

 

It was filthy, and pressed to Kavinsky's side amid the throng, Proko couldn't help but enjoy it.

 

Against his ear, though, Kavinsky was murmuring, "You wanna leave?"

 

"Not yet."

 

"Take one of these, then." And he pressed a silvery pill into Proko's palm.

 

"What is it?"

 

"Dunno." Softly, Kavinsky added, " _I dreamed it_."

 

"What's it do?"

 

A nip to Proko's earlobe, and Kavinsky murmured, "Gets the blood flowing."

 

-

 

Kavinsky's dream pill had done far more than just _get the blood flowing_ , and mere minutes after it had dissolved on Proko's tongue, he found himself in Kavinsky's lap in the back seat of the Mitsu, breathing against Kavinsky's lips, "Did you roofie me?"

 

"Does it matter?" With the music blasting outside, Kavinsky's throaty growl of a voice was barely audible. Proko felt it more than heard it, in his lips and down his throat, worming its way into the very core of him. "You took it willingly."

 

That was true, and Proko shuddered, pressing closer, mouthing along the side of Kavinsky's neck, hands threading into dark hair. The slide of Kavinsky's hands beneath the hem of his too-tight jeans, calloused hands against his hips, had a bone-deep shiver racing down his spine, breath coming in hot little gasps against Kavinsky's shoulder.

 

"Feels good, huh?"

 

"Mm-hmm." It was little more than a purr. "You made it this way?"

 

"Yeah." The breathlessness of Kavinsky's voice was more arousing than it should have been. "You like it?"

 

Again, soft and needy, "Mm-hmm."

 

"Y'know..." Kavinsky's voice was low and rough, his breath hot and heavy against sensitive skin. "I was dreaming of you when the pills showed up."

 

"They're for me?"

 

"Anything for you." There was a startling desperation in Kavinsky's voice, and Proko trembled in the wake of it, hiding his face against Joey's shoulder. "Anything to get you like this."

 

 _Like this_... Jeans undone, shirt rucked up, grinding it out with another boy in the back seat of a sleazy rice-burner while their classmates partied mere feet away... The very thought of it was enough to get Proko shivering apart in Kavinsky's arms, muffling a moan into dark hair.

 

Kavinsky wasn't far behind, and when he came, he bit down on Proko's neck, soft skin held tight between his teeth, possessive and rough and soon to leave a mark too high for Proko's uniform collar to hide it.

 

Everyone would know that Ilya Prokopenko was spoken for. It was a lovely thought.

 

"Pills..." Proko's face was still tucked against Kavinsky's shoulder, lips brushing flushed skin as he spoke. "Guns..." He pulled back, meeting dark eyes with pale ones and asking, "What's next?"

 

"A world." The words came between soft, sated kisses, and while Proko was still flushed and panting and bedroom-eyed, he managed to look concerned. "An entire world all my own."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Swan. He's a very physical person. The boy has no sense of personal space. Luckily, Proko doesn't mind it in the slightest. Jealous though he is, he really appreciates being comforted. Oksana, alas, is not the most comforting person on the planet. Neither is his mother, Kalyna, though I need to include more info on her in the later chapters
> 
> And Proko! He's so easily manipulated. Even if he wasn't, I imagine even younger, Joey boy is an expert when it comes to manipulation. With parents in a loveless marriage, manipulation is an easy skill to master


	6. Chapter 5

Though he had come to enjoy school despite the stresses, Proko was extremely glad to have no classes the morning after the party.

 

Somehow, over the course of the late night and the early morning, he and Joey had managed to find their way back to the new Kavinsky mansion, up to one of the numerous guest bedrooms, where they had promptly passed out together on an oversized bed, still mostly dressed.

 

It was early in the afternoon when Proko finally woke, Kavinsky propped up on the pillows beside him, showered and freshly dressed, eating a bowl of what appeared to be Lucky Charms and idly playing with his cellphone.

 

When Proko stirred at his side, he drawled, "Morning, princess."

 

Proko replied with a sleepily murmured, "Joey."

 

Setting his bowl and spoon on the bedside table, tossing his phone on the pale blue comforter, Kavinsky asked, "Sleep well?"

 

Oddly, pleasantly, it didn't sound forced, and Proko murmured, "Mm-hmm. You?"

 

A grumble, and Kavinsky grabbed at the phone again, flipping it around so that Proko could see the screen. "It's all written in Cyrillic."

 

The fact that he had dreamt the phone into being was left unsaid. Furrowing his brow, Proko rolled onto his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows, eyeing the dreamt phone's screen and asking, " _Bulgarian Cyrillic_?"

 

"Must be," Kavinsky agreed, scrolling down along what appeared to be his contacts list. "But I don't even _know_ Bulgarian anymore."

 

"Some part of you must."

 

"Guess so." He didn't sound at all convinced. "It's harder to control it here." He tossed the phone off the edge of the bed, where it cracked noisily against the wood. "I wasn't even _trying_ for it."

 

"You just need to practice."

 

Looking a bit irritated at a statement of such obviousness, Kavinsky reached out to tangle one hand into Proko's hair, the strands wavy and soft and sand-colored, and experimentally, he tugged.

 

Shoulders trembling, Proko whimpered, biting at his lower lip, those lovely eyes squeezed shut.

 

Pulling a bit harder, Kavinsky asked, clearly intrigued, "You actually like that?"

 

Glancing up, clearly reluctant to ease the pressure on his scalp, Proko simply murmured, his voice thick, "Yeah."

 

"You're kind of a freak." It sounded like high praise.

 

"So are you." Proko licked his lips, shoulders quivering when Kavinsky's hand tightened, pulling his head to one side to expose the red-violet bite mark that had been laid into his neck the night before. Proko could feel it throbbing in time with his heartbeat, and he breathed, "We're good for each other."

 

Though one side of Kavinsky's mouth lifted just the slightest bit, unnoticeable to anyone who didn't know his expressions, he soon glanced away, grabbing a half-empty beer bottle off the nightstand. Swishing the contents, he asked, "Hair of the dog?"

 

Wrinkling his nose, Proko quipped, "Sounds like a good way to become an alcoholic."

 

"Prob'ly, yeah." Kavinsky finished the bottle in one go.

 

-

 

"Do you think they'll make me leave?"

 

Kavinsky snorted, an unflattering sound, though his smile was dazzling.

 

"I'm serious!" Just the same, Proko found himself mirroring Kavinsky's grin as they headed towards homeroom Monday morning. "They're so strict about the dress code, and a hickey isn't really an appropriate thing to wear in school, I'd say."

 

" _Wear_?"

 

"English isn't my first language, don't make fun!" A roll of frosty eyes, an irritated huff, and Proko asked, "You did it on purpose, didn't you?"

 

"'Course I did."

 

The idea had Proko smiling to himself, and he lifted one hand to his neck, pressing against still-sensitized skin, doing his best to hold back a shiver.

"Everyone's gonna know your mine."

 

The shiver that _that_ thought brought on couldn't be held back.

 

-

 

"I saved you a seat!"

 

For that, Proko was grateful. The cafeteria was packed, and he claimed a seat beside Swan immediately, Kavinsky following close behind.

 

With the cool October rain pouring down outside, no one had dared to venture out for lunch, and the noise of so many boys in the space was near deafening, the press of them all over-warm and suffocating.

 

Without so much as a tray in his hands, Kavinsky settled at Proko's side, resting his head against the taller boy's shoulder, his dark eyes slipping shut.

 

"Bad dreams?" Swan asked, and Proko did his best to smother a smile.

 

"Can't always dream about fucking Proko," Kavinsky agreed.

 

Shaking his head, Swan murmured, "Shame." His little smile faded a bit when another boy approached the table.

 

"Swan." He had the sort of rasping voice that spoke of years of smoking, despite his youth. "Next Tuesday's Anatomy exam is in the works. You want me to set aside a copy for you or no?"

 

Paying the question no mind, touching the boy's arm and glancing to Proko and Kavinsky, Swan said, "This is Jiang. He's the one to know if you don't like studying."

 

"You're selling answer keys to exams?" Proko could do nothing to hide the fact that he was impressed, and pressed to his side, Kavinsky opened one eye to glare at Jiang.

 

"Obviously."

 

Proko flushed a bit at that, aware of the possessive hand Kavinsky had placed against his thigh, high up enough to make his meaning obvious.

 

Jiang seemed to take it as a challenge, turning his dark, fierce eyes on Proko and pulling out his phone, all but demanding, "Gimme your number."

 

"You don't even know my name," was Proko's only objection, and Jiang's dark eyes rolled.

 

"Proko." He pointed at Proko as he said it, turning his attention to Joey and adding, "Kavinsky." He shoved the phone at Proko again, though his eyes were still on Kavinsky as he did it.

 

Though he tossed a glance at Kavinsky, too, Proko took the phone and did as he was told. He'd never been able to resist orders.

 

It was natural, of course, that Kavinsky would be bothered by this turn of events, but it surprised Proko to see Swan looking rather troubled, too.

 

Darting his gaze from Proko to Kavinsky to Jiang and back again, sounding oddly hesitant, Swan said, "Jiang, Proko and Kavinsky _are together_." Both Jiang and Kavinsky raised brows at that. "Kavinsky's still a li'l in denial 'bout being queer, so he won't _say it_ , but--"

 

"You think I give a shit?"

 

Looking distinctly unimpressed, Swan deadpanned, "That's really trashy."

 

"So are you."

 

A chord of songbird laughter, and Swan agreed, "True."

 

Not looking particularly amused, Jiang asked, "You want me to set you aside a copy of the answer key or not? Anatomy costs extra." Half to himself, he added, "Fucking Broviak keeps his answer keys locked up."

 

"Yes, please!" Then, leaning against Proko's shoulder, Swan said, as if it were some great secret, " _I hate studying_."

 

Rolling his eyes, Jiang asked Proko, "How about you?"

 

Softly, Proko answered, "I like studying, actually."

 

"Nerd." It came out like the filthiest curse imaginable, and Proko repressed a shiver. Smirking, Jiang shot a look at Kavinsky, asking rather curtly, "You?"

 

Elbowing Proko, Kavinsky said, "I'll copy off him." Meeting Jiang's eyes, his voice low and malicious, Kavinsky added, "And you're gonna keep your hands off him."

 

"Am I?" Jiang didn't seem the least bit intimidated.

 

"Yeah, _you are_ , or you're gonna get your ass kicked."

 

Jiang's responding laughter was like shattered ice, and even as Kavinsky wound a possessive arm around his hips, Proko silently willed it to cut him to ribbons.

 

-

 

"He's watching you."

 

"Who?"

 

" _Jiang_." Leaning against Proko's side, Swan added, "He's being _kinda_ subtle, at least."

 

When Proko dared a glance up from his notes, he was immediately met with Jiang's dark eyes, watching him from a few desks down along the semicircular formation, brow furrowed as if he were working on a puzzle of some sort. That was ridiculous, of course: Proko was no puzzle.

 

At his side, pressing their upper arms together, Swan murmured, sounding strangely troubled, "He's really into you."

 

" _Why_ , though?"

 

"Because you're smart," Swan suggested, as if throwing compliments about was nothing. For someone like him, someone who was beautiful and charming and _wanted_ , it probably _was_ nothing. "Because you're sassy as Hell and it's adorable. Because you have just about the prettiest eyes I've ever seen." Proko flushed over that last one, and Swan added, laughter in his voice, "Plus, you blush like a schoolgirl over every li'l thing."

 

Softly, Proko said, "I suppose."

 

"If you wanna know so bad," Swan said with a playful eye-roll, " _ask him_."

 

Proko went silent at that, turning his attention back to Jiang.

 

He was listening to the professor's droning, it seemed, eyes forward, his chin resting in one tattooed hand, looking _profoundly_ bored. Proko took a moment to study him: The careless slump of his shoulders, the short, immaculate crop of his hair, the hints of colorful tattoos peeking from beneath the cuffs and collar of his rumpled uniform shirt. With the delicate ivory of his skin and the darkness of his hair and the absolute black of his eyes, those tattoos looked incredibly bright, and Proko rather desperately wanted to trace the white tiger tail that curled up from Jiang's left shoulder.

 

When the bell announced the end of class, Proko's eyes were still on Jiang, meeting Jiang's own when he approached, asking, "You just gonna stare at me all day?"

 

"I was trying to figure you out," Proko admitted, and at his side, Swan groaned.

 

"You'll have to excuse him," Swan said, patting Proko's shoulder, looking apologetic, and Proko rolled his eyes. "He was homeschooled, so he has no social skills."

 

Though Jiang raised an eyebrow, he didn't question it, asking instead, "What were you trying to _figure out_?"

 

Thoroughly unsure of himself, Proko replied, "Why it is you seem to be so interested in me."

 

"Because a sadist can smell a masochist from a mile away."

 

Tossing an embarrassed glance at Swan, who seemed entirely unperturbed, "What makes you think...?"

 

"Because to put up with Kavinsky's shit," Jiang said with a wicked smirk, "you'd have to be."

 

-

 

"Hey, Joey?"

 

Propped up against the headboard of his bed, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips as he scrolled through his phone, Kavinsky murmured, "Hmm?"

 

Licking his lips, Proko softly asked, "What are we?"

 

"Decaying masses of organic matter," was the glib reply.

 

Doing his best to put a weeks-old echo of _Are we?_ out of his mind, and Proko scoffed, "I mean, what are _you and I_?"

 

That seemed to catch Kavinsky's attention, and his dark eyes darted down to where Proko was sprawled beside him. " _You and I_?"

 

Nodding, Proko hummed, "You and I. We're _together_ , aren't we? We're, like..." Gnawing on his lower lip, tasting copper, Proko pulled a pillow to his chest, using it to prop himself up a bit. "Am I your boyfriend, Joey?" He couldn't bear to meet Kavinsky's eyes when he asked.

 

Kavinsky, for his part, didn't answer.

 

"If you don't want me," Proko said into the silence, knowing full well how underhanded it was, knowing full well that Kavinsky would appreciate the underhandedness, "I'm sure Jiang--"

 

" _He can't have you_." It came surprisingly fierce, and Proko shivered, hiding his pinkening face in the pillow. " _You're **mine**_."

 

Proko's voice was muffled and soft when he asked, "Your _what_...?"

 

Sighing, Kavinsky tilted his head back against the headboard, exhaling smoke and asking, "You're not gonna give up on this, are you?"

 

"Absolutely not."

 

It must have been strange, Proko figured, for Kavinsky to hear him sounding so determined, and it was confirmed when the other boy's eyes dropped to him, troubled and strangely proud. Softly, Kavinsky said, "I guess _boyfriend_ is the right word." He smiled when Proko surged up to kiss him. Against soft lips, he said, "You're _mine_ , babe. _He can't have you_."

 

Smiling, Proko asked, very carefully, "Are you jealous?"

 

" _Fuck, no_."

 

It was an obvious front, and Proko leaned in to press a soft kiss to the high, sharp curve of Kavinsky's cheekbone, just beneath one dark eye. The scar his father had left there before his departure from Spring Lake had faded nearly to nonexistence. Gently, as reassuring as he could manage, Proko said, "I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

 

A smirk, and Kavinsky asked, his words coming on a puff of smoke, "Not even to class?"

 

Climbing into Kavinsky's lap, pressing chest-to-chest on the bed, Proko said, his voice rapidly darkening, "I can miss a day."

 

Kavinsky's laughter ruffled through Proko's hair, and a hand soon followed, pulling Proko's head down enough so their eyes met, noses nearly touching, sharing the same air. It was strangely intimate. "Your grandma's right, y'know. I'm a _really_ shitty influence on you."

 

Shuddering when the hand in his hair gave a rough jerk, a whimper catching in his throat, Proko agreed, smiling, "The worst."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'ever notice that no matter who's writing Proko, he enjoys getting his hair pulled? I'm glad the fandom can agree on that, at least! Lol
> 
> And, God, Proko has such a weakness for assholes. So glad Jiang is finally here! He's such a conniving, vicious little shit, I love him so much <3


	7. Chapter 7

"It's not like you to skip class." Swan didn't sound overly concerned, shrugging his rucksack from his shoulders. "Where were you?"

 

Feigning ignorance, Proko asked, "When?"

 

A roll of his startling eyes, and Swan laughed, "With Kavinsky, I guess!"

 

Giving a little smile, Proko agreed, "Where else would I be?"

 

-

 

"You have Thanksgiving break coming up soon, yes?" Proko hated the way his grandmama's voice sounded over the phone, but he stayed on the line just the same, sprawled on his bed while Swan played some game or other on his purple-cased iPhone on the opposite bed. "Will you be coming home?"

 

Though he hesitated, eventually Proko admitted, "I don't want to leave Joey by himself." From across the room, only briefly glancing up, Swan smiled.

 

"You would want to leave your grandmama by _her_ self?"

 

The feigned hurt in Oksana's voice sent a smile skittering nervously across Proko's face. "I trust you more to be on your own than him."

 

"I won't be alone, actually." She didn't sound particularly pleased about it.

 

"Someone's visiting?" Proko asked.

 

"Kalyna plans to, yes." His mother's name came like a curse. "You don't want to see her?"

 

A huff of humorless laughter, and Proko said, "You clearly don't."

 

"She's bringing Yelena."

 

"Should I care?" Kavinsky would have loved the ice in his voice.

 

Oksana alas, did not, pointing out, "She's your sister."

 

" _Half_ -sister."

 

"Your Joey is more important than your own flesh and blood?" Oksana sounded a little disgusted.

 

"Yeah, he is." Proko was a little surprised with himself. He'd never met Yelena. He'd never met his mother's new husband, Sergey, either. He wasn't even _new_ anymore, really: Kalyna had been with him for more than half a decade. They didn't matter, cruel as that sounded. _Joey did_. He was nothing less than a guiding force in Proko's life, and without his permission, Proko heard himself say under his breath, "I've never..."

 

A sigh, thoroughly resigned, and Oksana asked, "Been in love?"

 

Proko simply murmured, "Yes."

 

-

 

As Swan packed a designer duffle with more than enough clothes to last the extended weekend, he asked, "You're really just gonna stay here?"

 

"I'm not leaving Joey by himself."

 

With Proko leaning against his shoulder, Kavinsky rolled his eyes despite his smile.

 

Glancing over his shoulder to meet Kavinsky's eyes, Swan asked, "Why can't you go home?"

 

"My mom and I are in hiding."

 

Proko was surprised the confession had come so easily, and he pressed a kiss to Kavinsky's hair, the dark spikes tickling his lips.

 

Glancing around, Swan asked, "This really the best place to hide?"

 

"He hasn't come after us yet," Kavinsky said with a shrug, jostling Proko a bit, "so I guess it's as good a place as any."

 

"He?" Swan asked at the same time Proko asked, " _Yet_?"

 

"My old man." To Proko, Kavinsky added, "He's gonna find us eventually. Much as I hate the fucker, he isn't stupid."

 

"If he finds you," Proko said, lips brushing Kavinsky's temple as he spoke, "I'm going with you when you leave."

 

A scoff, and Kavinsky asked, "What about school? And your grandma? What's she gonna say if we run away together?" If Kavinsky's little smirk was any indication, he hadn't the slightest care for Oksana's opinion on the matter.

 

Neither did Proko, and he simply said, "Doesn't matter. I'm staying with you."

 

Turning to sit on the edge of his bed, Swan sighed wistfully, murmuring, "You guys're adorable."

 

Though Proko flushed, Kavinsky indignantly grumbled, " _We are not_."

 

"You _so_ are." Stripping off his uniform shirt, Swan said, "I gotta find me someone to be adorable with."

 

Shrugging, Kavinsky said, "You got me."

 

Beside him, Proko's bit at his lower lip. Swan was more aware of it than Kavinsky was, saying, "Y'only flirt with me 'cause you like seeing poor li'l Proko get jealous."

 

In lieu of a proper response, Kavinsky raised an eyebrow, his eyes on Swan's bare shoulder when he asked, "You have a tattoo?"

 

Proko had, of course, seen it on many occasions, and rolled his eyes a bit. Kavinsky was good when it came to avoidance.

 

Swan was more amused than Proko was, glancing at his right shoulder. There was a black rose tattooed there, the ink still dark and sharp. It couldn't have been more than a few months old. "My mama was a stripper, y'know," Swan said, smiling to himself. "Black Rose was her stage name, and this is my way of paying my respects."

 

"She dead?" Kavinsky asked.

 

"'Course not!" Pulling a too-tight t-shirt over his head, Swan said, "I'm heading to see her, actually. You wanna come along? I don't think she'd mind."

 

"Well, if she's a stripper--"

 

"Joey!" Proko's half-hearted objection came on a peal of laughter.

 

"She _used to be_ a stripper," Swan said, giving a smile of his own as he settled on his bed to pull on his expensive sneakers. "She's good with money, though, so she quit that years ago."

 

Looking impressed, Proko asked, "And she could still afford to send you here?"

 

"You find the right sugar daddy," Swan said, glancing up at Proko through the thick, dark fringe of his eyelashes, "and you can afford anything."

 

-

 

It was strange, being in their shared dorm room without Swan.

 

With Kavinsky above him, though, mouth on Proko's neck, hands in his hair, hips moving in tandem, Proko found that he didn't mind in the slightest.

 

-

 

Proko sighed when his phone rang through the quiet dorm, reaching to the nightstand to grab at it despite the damp warmth of Kavinsky's lips on his neck.

 

"Ignore it."

 

It was half a command, but Proko answered just the same, shooting Kavinsky an apologetic look and answering the call with a slightly irritated, "Hello, Grandmama."

 

"This isn't your grandmama."

 

So it wasn't. The caller ID had been wrong, apparently, and Proko pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment to check it again. Though it was his grandmama's number on the screen, the voice was wrong. This voice was too sharp, too young, and Proko sighed, thoroughly resigned, "Hello, Mother."

 

Instead of giving a greeting of her own, Kalyna asked, "Why aren't you here?"

 

Glancing at Kavinsky, who was watching him with those dark, dark eyes, Proko steeled himself an admitted, "I didn't wanna see you."

 

"And what of your sister?" Kalyna's formidable anger was already rising. "And your father?"

 

" _He_ isn't my father." Still astride his hips, Kavinsky crossed his arms over Proko's stomach, watching with a challenging little smile on his lips. "And _she_ isn't my sister."

 

"Does your grandmother let you speak to her like this?" There was a mixture of disgust and anger in Kalyna's voice, covering just the palest glimmer of pride. Proko had been fishing for that pride all his life; Even a scant amount was enough to make his chest swell. "You were never this disrespectful before."

 

Shivering when Joey pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat, warm and soft and encouraging, Proko found his anger, hissing at his mother, "I get it from you." It was entirely true.

 

A scoff, disbelieving, and Kalyna demanded, "This is what I get for raising you?"

 

"This is what you get for giving me away." And Proko hung up.

 

The phone was buzzing angrily within seconds.

 

Laughter clear in his voice, Kavinsky laughed, "Holy shit."

 

"I've wanted to do that," Proko replied, incredulous laughter bubbling up in his chest, " _for years_."

 

-

 

"Why couldn't we have just gone to McDonald's?"

 

Kavinsky's voice was little more than an irate grumble, muffled into the side of Proko's neck as they stepped into the cafeteria.

 

Proko's reply was bulletproof: "Have you ever _had_ McDonald's? It's terrible."

 

"Mm." Settling at a table near the door, Kavinsky pillowed his head on his folded arms. His voice was horribly muffled when he said, "Gimme something to eat, too, will you?"

 

"What do you want?"

 

"You know what I like, sweetheart."

 

Though it was said sarcastically, Proko flushed just the same, rolling his eyes and crossing the room to grab breakfast.

 

With the majority of the students away for the weekend, the cafeteria was mostly empty, the line of buffet tables fuller of food than usual. It was nice.

 

Grabbing a plate from the first, smallest table, Proko worked his way down the line, loading it with bacon and scrambled eggs and a few sausages, only grabbing Kavinsky a carton of milk and a little bowl of cereal. It was spiteful, but if he was too lazy to get his food himself... Kavinsky would appreciate the spite, Proko was sure of it.

 

"You really gonna eat all that?"

 

Proko turned enough to give Jiang a smile, simply saying, "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

 

Though Jiang's dark eyes rolled, his tiny smile was undeniable. "You here by yourself?"

 

"No, I'm with--"

 

" _Kavinsky_?" The name came on a sneer.

 

"We're kind of a package deal, you know." Though it sounded a bit arrogant, it was entirely true. "If you hang around me, you're going to hear about him, too."

 

"Damn straight." Suddenly, Kavinsky was at Proko's side, an arm draped around his hips. "Didn't I already tell you _he's mine_?"

 

Defiant, Jiang shot back, "You can't own a person."

 

Again, Kavinsky said, " ** _He's mine_**."

 

" _You can't own_ \--"

 

" _Stay away from him_."

 

It was oddly flattering, being fought over, though Proko was as thoroughly taken by surprise as Kavinsky was by Jiang's vicious right hook.

 

Blood dripping from his split knuckles, looking grave and dangerous, Jiang all but growled, "Do _not_ tell me what to do."

 

Accepting Proko's offer of a supporting shoulder, his own expression wild-eyed and strangely triumphant, Kavinsky said, wiping blood from his lips, "You gotta teach me to hit like that."

 

-

 

"Don't tuck your thumb, dumbass, you'll break it that way."

 

Kavinsky untucked his thumb and threw a punch to have it caught by Jiang. Again. They'd been at it all weekend, and sprawled on his bed, scrolling through Kavinsky's Facebook wall, Proko smiled to himself.

 

It was an unconventional way to start a friendship, to be sure, but there wasn't much about Kavinsky or Jiang that was really _conventional_ at all. Joey, with his drugs and his dreams and his cutting smirks, and Jiang, with his tattoos and his wit and his unending ambition… To be honest, it was their unconventionality that Proko liked best about them.

 

A punch landed wrong, and Jiang grabbed onto Kavinsky's arm, twisting it, and at Kavinsky's hiss, Proko glanced up to find Jiang dark, dark eyes on him. This was a show of dominance, Proko was sure, and he did his best to ignore a little flutter in his stomach.

 

With Kavinsky flat on his stomach, Jiang pressed a knee to the small of his back, pinning his shoulders down with slender hands. To both Kavinsky and Proko, he announced, "I'm hungry."

 

"Swan's going to be back in a few minutes," Proko said, not glancing up from Kavinsky's pilfered phone. "We ought to wait for him."

 

One hand at Kavinsky's nape, pressing his face against the wood floor, Jiang said, "I'm hungry _now_."

 

His words slightly muffled, Kavinsky snarled, "So go to the cafeteria."

 

" _Didn't ask you_."

 

Nearly breaking his neck to steal a glance at the alarm clock on Proko's bedside table, Kavinsky asked, "Don'cha got a roommate who's expecting you back?"

 

"He's got a girlfriend. What's he care if I come back or not?" Jiang sounded incredibly bitter, and it was impossible to miss the way his knuckles went white around Kavinsky's shoulders.

 

Carefully, Proko said, "You like him."

 

"He's an asshole."

 

Proko pressed, " _But you like him_."

 

Jiang did nothing to deny it, digging his nails into Kavinsky's shoulders, and Joey bucked beneath him, making a soft sound that was clearly _not_ a sound of pain.

 

Biting at his lower lip, Proko asked, "Do we know him?"

 

"He's a year ahead of us." Every word of it sounded like a curse. "I doubt it."

 

"Oh, Jiang, are you brooding over Declan again?" Jiang scowled as Swan stepped into the room, soaking from the November rain but thoroughly happy, his bag more overstuffed than it had been when he left. He was quick to relieve himself of it. "He's good-looking," Swan said, more to Proko than to Kavinsky or even Jiang, "but he's a dick."

 

Jiang simply hissed, " _Fuck off_."

 

"What're you even doing here?" Swan didn't seem at all bothered by his presence, however, pulling off his wet coat and turning to regard the tangled heap of Jiang and Kavinsky with curious eyes. "Were you having a threesome or something?"

 

"Like Hell," Kavinsky growled, and Jiang pressed him harder into the floor. The flush on his cheeks made it obvious he was enjoying the rough treatment as much as Jiang was enjoying doling it out.

 

Rolling his eyes, Proko explained, "They're sort of friends now."

 

Pulling off his storm-damp t-shirt and tossing it carelessly to the floor, Swan asked, "Guess I missed a lot, huh?"

 

Glancing down just in time to see Kavinsky shove his elbow into Jiang's ribs, Proko laughed, "Guess you did."

 

"Take me to dinner." Swan's sweetness was irresistible, even to Proko, and he glanced up, relieved to see that Swan had pulled on a clean tee, though this one was just as obscenely tight at the first one had been. Combined with the low rise of his jeans, it left a strip of skin enticingly bare. Proko tried not to stare, accepting a hand up when it was offered. "Tell me all about it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we got to learn a bit about Kalyna Rozumovskyi in this chapter. She and Proko don't really get along. I think the only big problem I have with this fic is that I couldn't work her any farther into the story. This is her only appearance
> 
> On the bright side, I really, really love Jiang. And we get to meet Skov in the next chapter! :D


	8. Chapter 7

"Are you and Kavinsky going to the party tomorrow?" Swan pulled his Aglionby sweater off as he spoke, tossing a glance at Proko over his shoulder.

 

Proko, across the room on his bed, frowned into a worn copy of _The Velveteen Rabbit_. Though it was made for children, the thought of a toy becoming real through the magic of love was infinitely comforting. " _Another one_?" he asked.

 

Though Swan's eyes rolled, he smiled just the same, replacing his school sweater with a suitably ugly one for said party. "The last party you went to was months ago!"

 

"Exactly." Carefully placing his book aside on the nightstand, Proko reasoned, "I've already been to _one_ party, so this will be _another one_."

 

-

 

Kavinsky had, of course, insisted upon attending.

 

He had also insisted on keeping Proko pressed to his side under the mistletoe for most of the evening, though they had been jostled about quite a bit. The party was taking place in the senior dormitory, and though its common room was larger than that of the others, the sheer number of attendees for the student-hosted had rendered it quite crowded.

 

Swan was more active than Kavinsky and Proko, flitting from one classmate to the next, doling out kisses and candy canes and mugs of spiked eggnog. Pressing glasses into Proko's and Kavinsky's hands, he murmured, "Go easy. It's strong."

 

Though Proko sipped gingerly, Kavinsky downed his mug in one go.

 

A songbird laugh, and Swan leaned up to press his lips to the corner of Kavinsky's mouth, shooting a rather guilty look at Proko and saying, unnecessarily, "Mistletoe."

 

Kavinsky was quick to point out, "He's under the mistletoe, too."

 

Grabbing at the front of Proko's shirt, Swan pulled him in, kissing the laughter from his lips. "As jealous as he is," Swan said, "you'd figure he'd hate this."

 

"You're not competition," was Kavinsky's only defense.

 

Though he was clearly unoffended, Swan jerked his chin toward the center of the room, saying, "But _he_ is."

 

As Swan sashayed back into the fray, Jiang approached. "Surprised you're here," he said to Proko, not bothering to even glance at Kavinsky. "You don't seem like the kind to socialize just for fun."

 

Though Proko glanced to Kavinsky for a moment, he simply bit at his lip. Jiang got his meaning, he was sure.

 

"That's what I thought."

 

When he reached up to grab at the back of Proko's neck, Proko shuddered, shooting another brief glance at Joey before he let Jiang kiss him, soft and alcohol-warm and so, so wanting. It was incredibly difficult not to melt into it, but when he felt Kavinsky's hand overlap Jiang's at his nape, he had no choice but to pull away.

 

" _The fuck was that_?" Though Kavinsky sounded absolutely _furious_ , there was a certain needfulness in his voice, a certain darkness in his eyes that had Proko shuddering.

 

Jiang seemed to see it, too, rolling his eyes and pointing out, "You let Swan do it." The glare Kavinsky gave him for that could cut glass. Then he gestured to somewhere above their heads. "And he's under the mistletoe. It's gonna happen again unless you move him."

 

Kavinsky's response was to simply curl an arm around Proko's hips and pull him closer, though it didn't really take him out of mistletoe range.

 

Shaking his head, Jiang looked away.

 

When his gaze snagged on someone across the room, Proko followed it, asking, "That's him, huh?"

 

"Yeah."

 

He was clearly a Lynch: With that sharp jaw and that caramel skin and those brilliant eyes, he could be no one else. He was a bit too polished for Proko's taste, but he said just the same, for politeness' sake, if nothing else, "He's very handsome."

 

"Yeah, he is."

 

One brow lifting, leaning back against the doorjamb, Kavinsky sneered, "You're fuckin' _gone_ for him, aren'cha?"

 

Humming a bit, Jiang lifted one arm, calling, "C'mere, D."

 

The command was followed, and Proko hoped, silently, that Jiang's attraction to him was mutual. He deserved to be happy. He deserved someone who wanted him.

 

"What is it?" It was not a gruff question, Declan's blue-flame eyes flitting from Jiang to Proko to Kavinsky and back again. Though he was only a year older than them, he looked at least twenty, with his slick suit and his sleep-shadowed eyes. He looked responsible, stable. He would do well, that much was obvious. Proko could see the appeal, and he tossed an approving glance at Jiang, who gave him a tiny smirk in return.

 

"This is Proko," Jiang said, pressing a hand to the small of Proko's back. Then he flapped a careless hand at Joey. "That's Kavinsky."

 

"Nice to meet you." He had a firm handshake, Proko noted. That was always a good thing.

 

Then Jiang gave Kavinsky a rough shove, saying simply, " _Move_." He was more gentle with Proko, nudging him carefully aside so he could grab at Declan's unnecessary tie and pull him beneath the mistletoe.

 

They made an attractive pair: Jiang tiny and tattooed and milk-pale, Declan tall and strong and dark, winding his arms around Jiang's hips and holding him close.

 

When they kissed, Declan surprisingly willing, Proko did his best to ignore a pang of jealousy.

 

-

 

"He doesn't have to leave for a while, does he?"

 

"Not until four," Proko replied, watching from across the room as Swan danced with Dvorak, honey-colored eyes dark and wanting. "Why?"

 

Smirking a bit, Kavinsky purred, "We got the room to ourselves 'til four then, don't we?"

 

The mere suggestion was enough to make Proko's breath catch in his chest.

 

-

 

"Did you lock the door?"

 

"Won't matter." Kavinsky's words were muffled around Proko's neck, lips and teeth brushing sensitive skin as he spoke. "I'm not gonna stop either way."

 

That had Proko rolling his hips up against Kavinsky's, a needy little whimper dying in his throat.

 

"Hold still." The hands at Proko's waist were suddenly restraints, pinning him to the bed, though the darkness of Kavinsky's eyes had greater effect. The press of nails into soft skin had a soft moan bubbling up from Proko's chest. "Wanna fuck you."

 

Shakily, Proko asked, "Is this my Christmas present?"

 

"Might as well be." He most likely hadn't gotten Proko a gift. Proko didn't mind. His thoughtfulness, Proko had learned, came in fits and starts, not with days on the calendar. "You want it."

 

There was no denying it, and Proko shivered when Kavinsky's hands slid down to his hips. It was a question without words, and Proko arched into it in answer.

 

He could feel Kavinsky's smirk, wide and wanting, against his neck.

 

-

 

Swan had come and gone in the night, but Proko was only truly awoken by a knocking at the door in the early afternoon.

 

Pressed tight against his back, Kavinsky muttered against his bruise-littered neck, "Get it."

 

"My back hurts." Kavinsky gave a scoff of laughter, clearly pleased with himself. "You get it."

 

Climbing off the bed and swiping a pair of Proko's pajama pants off the floor, Kavinsky headed to the door. When he opened it, one brow lifted, he simply demanded, " _What_?"

 

"I take it you're the roommate, then?"

 

At the sound of his mother's voice, Proko threw off the covers, grateful that the cold of the room had forced him into pajamas just after Swan had left. "Mother," he said as he stepped to Kavinsky's side, one hand pressing against the ache in his back as conspicuously as he could. "This is Joey."

 

"Odd." Kalyna didn't seem to care one way or another, hands at her hips. "Your grandmother said the roommate's name was Swan."

 

" _The_ _roommate_ ," Proko said, fighting off a bit of irritation, glad when Kavinsky wound an arm around his hips, holding him close, "caught a plane to Baton Rouge last night. This is _the boyfriend_."

 

Paying that comment no mind, Kalyna stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her, glancing around and asking, "This is where you're living?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Hmm." Darting a glance at the hickies staining her son's neck, Kalyna said, "Get dressed. We're going to lunch."

 

"Only if Joey gets to come with us."

 

Furrowing her brow, Kalyna said, "You're in no position to be making demands, Ilya."

 

"This is my home." Proko smiled when the arm around his hips tightened. "Of course I am."

 

-

 

"You sure you want me to come along, babe?"

 

"Are you nervous about talking to her?"

 

Pulling on the jeans he had worn to the party, Kavinsky muttered, "Never agreed to meet your parents."

 

It was odd to hear Kavinsky sounding so unsure, and Proko replied with a perfectly honest, "I need the emotional support. Please?"

 

"'Cause God knows I'm the best person for that."

 

Smiling a bit as he pulled on a too-tight t-shirt he was certain his mother would disapprove of, Proko replied, glibly, "Yeah, well, beggars can't be choosers."

 

-

 

Proko and Kavinsky found Kalyna waiting in the cafeteria, just where she'd said she would be.

 

Unexpected, though, was the presence of her husband and her daughter at the same table.

 

Sergey was rather nondescript: Wide jaw, graying hair, straight nose. He had a nice smile, at least, and he was very well dressed.

 

Yelena was another matter entirely. With her golden skin and dark curls and her big, barely-blue eyes, she looked more like a porcelain doll than a seven-year-old girl.

 

Shitty though it was, Proko was instantly, _painfully_ jealous.

 

Glancing up, Kavinsky asked, "Who are they?"

 

"My step-father and my sister."

 

Watching them for a moment before he returned his attention to Proko, Kavinsky pointed out, "You never mentioned having a sister."

 

"I've never met her."

 

Yelena didn't seem to mind that, standing and darting over to Proko as soon as she took notice of him, holding out her hand for a shake and saying, "I'm Yelena. You must be Ilya."

 

Tossing a nervous glance at Kavinsky, Proko shook his sister's hand, smiling and saying, "I must be."

 

Taking hold of Proko's wrist, Yelena pulled him to where their mother was seated, calling to Kavinsky, "Come along! You can sit with us, too, if you like."

 

Leaning close for a moment, Kavinsky whispered, "She talks like you."

 

Smiling to himself, Proko took Kavinsky's hand, pulling him towards the cafeteria's only occupied table. When they sat, Proko took great comfort in the hand Kavinsky placed on his thigh.

 

Kalyna was unamused, resting her hand on her husband's shoulder and saying, "This is Sergey. Sergey, this is Ilya."

 

A warm smile on his face, Sergey extended his arm across the table, saying, "It's good to finally meet you, Ilya."

 

Significantly cooler, though he didn't refuse the handshake, Proko replied, "Same."

 

"And your friend?" Sergey asked next.

 

" _Boyfriend_ ," Kavinsky corrected. "I'm Joey."

 

"Oh." Sergey didn't seem displeased in the slightest, offering his hand to Kavinsky next. "Nice to meet you, too." His smile widened after the handshake. "A strong handshake," he said, turning his eyes to Proko, clearly a sign of approval. "That's good."

 

Kavinsky just smirked.

 

Kalyna was the one to speak next saying, "It was Yelena's idea to come here." At her side, Yelena smiled, shy and soft. "We were in Norfolk on business, and she'd never met you, so."

 

"We should be pen pals," Yelena said, her smile widening. She was missing one of her front teeth, and it was nothing short of adorable. "I can't write in English yet, but you remember Ukrainian, don't you?"

 

"Yeah, of course."

 

Reaching out to hold both of Proko's hands, Yelena chirped, "Write to me!"

 

Smiling, Proko asked their mother, "Is the factory still in the same place?"

 

Kalyna replied with a simple, "Yes."

 

Proko turned his smile on Yelena then, saying, "Absolutely." Then he stood, brushing his fingertips against her shoulder and saying, "Do you wanna get something to eat? The food's pretty good here."

 

"Do you eat here?"

 

"Most days."

 

"Okay." Yelena stood, too, sliding her little hand into her brother's.

 

They fit together perfectly.

 

-

 

Yelena was fast asleep by two, curled into her brother's side at the lunch table, her fingers twined with his. Jet lag, Proko thought. He didn't mind in the slightest.

 

Twisting her mouth and standing, clearly displeased with this turn of events, Kalyna said, "We have to go. There's a plane to catch."

 

"Where are you going next?" Proko asked. His arm was around Yelena's shoulders, holding her close. "Are you going to visit Grandmama?"

 

"We saw her last month. That's enough _Grandmama time_ to last a few years, thank you." Coming around the table, Kalyna nudging Proko's arm aside, scooping Yelena into her arms and eyeing her son with a strangely accusatory stare.

 

Proko, too, stood. Kavinsky did the same, fingertips brushing the delta of veins at the inside curve of Proko's wrist. "I wanna see her again."

 

Kalyna shook her head. "It's inconvenient."

 

"I know you're _busy_ \--" That last word came out sounding like a curse. "--But I'm sure Sergey would be okay bringing her around on his own every few months." Proko shot a glance at his step-father. "Wouldn't you?"

 

There was no hesitation when Sergey agreed, "Of course." He looked to Kalyna, saying in a pacifying tone, "It will be good for her to see her brother. You know she has a hard time making friends."

 

"Ilya is too much like Mykhayl. I don't want Yelena turning out like that."

 

"Hey, fuck you." Kavinsky thoroughly ignored the hand Proko placed on his shoulder. "There's nothing wrong with him. You'll be lucky as Hell if she turns out like him and not _like you_."

 

Kalyna was, of course, unmoved, turning her eyes to Proko and saying, "You'd do well to keep him on a tighter leash."

 

Again, " _Fuck you_."

 

Shaking her head as she walked away, Yelena in her arms and Sergey obediently following, Kalyna muttered, "A mad dog. I'd hoped you had better taste than that."

 

Steeling himself, half thinking it was the end of the world, Proko called back, "Better a mad dog than a bitch."

 

That stopped Kalyna in her tracks, and over her shoulder, she hissed, "Your grandmother will hear about this."

 

-

 

"Kalyna says you called her a bitch this afternoon."

 

Biting at his lip, curled up in bed with Kavinsky, Proko admitted, "I did."

 

A peal of smoky laughter, and Oksana simply said, "Well done."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so there was a change in plans: I said the next chapter was Skov's debut, but I ran into an issue. Namely, there was a large time skip, which included Christmas, and I wanted the boys to have their holiday. Plus, I managed to work in a bit of the Jiang/Declan so many of you seemed to be wanting :) And, just for myself, there's a bit more of Kalyna, plus actual appearances for Yelena and Sergey. I felt like Proko needed to confront them, y'know? Before the inevitable happens, I mean
> 
> Also, I always imagined the Lynch boys as POC. If that bothers you... I'm not even gonna apologize, because I'm not sorry. For more information, see [here](http://http://pr0ko.tumblr.com/post/155632119904/once-upon-a-time-a-man-named-niall-lynch-had/).
> 
> We'll get to Skov in the next chapter, I promise!


	9. Chapter 8

"Proko!" Swan's cheeks were flushed high with early-Spring color when he rushed into their shared dorm. February suited him, it seemed. "I need the room."

 

Knowing that he shouldn't, not bothering to look up from his homework, Proko asked, "What for?"

 

"You know that new transfer student? The one with the bleached hair?"

 

Proko thought for a moment before he asked, "Skovron?"

 

"That's the one!"

 

Glancing up from his textbook, one brow lifting in curiosity, Proko asked, "What about him?"

 

"Well," Swan said, eyes bright, cheeks enticingly flushed, "he wants to suck my dick." Leave it to Swan to say such a vulgar thing so casually. It was more attractive than it should have been. "And it's very rude to keep a gentleman waiting."

 

"You usually tease more than that," Proko pointed out, marking his page in his biology textbook and pushing himself up to sit up on his bed.

 

"Have you _seen him_ , though?" was Swan's defense. "Imma climb that boy like a tree." He grinned when Proko laughed at him. Then, clasping his hands as if in prayer, as if Proko were some fearsome deity and not simply a shy, masochistic schoolboy, he all but begged, "Please? I'll make it up to you, I promise!"

 

Swan was, all knew, irresistible, and Proko, of course, caved near instantly. "Yeah, okay." Grabbing his phone, Proko stood, saying, "Text me when you're through, though, yeah? I have a test to study for."

 

"Jiang could help you with that, y'know."

 

" _Swan_."

 

Though Swan's honey-colored eyes rolled, he agreed, "I promise I'll text you." Then he stood on tiptoe to press a kiss to the corner of Proko's mouth before herding him out of their room.

 

Smiling to himself as he walked the halls, Proko shot a text Kavinsky's way: _What are you up to?_

 

The reply was almost instantaneous, as it always was: _@ the house w j. cum c._

 

-

 

 _Come see_ Proko had, a bit surprised to find Joey and Jiang sitting on the asphalt of the Kavinsky driveway, spray paint cans in hand, making an utter mess of the Mitsubishi's previously immaculate paint job.

 

One brow lifted high, hands coming to rest at his hips, Proko asked, " _What are you **doing**_?"

 

"Art project," Jiang glibly said, working on a silvery slash along the length of the car that seemed to be the beginnings of a blade.

 

At his side, Kavinsky skillfully demonstrated his own artistic ability by spray-painting a particularly lopsided smiley face on the blacktop, looking nothing short of immensely proud of it.

 

Smiling in spite of himself, Proko asked, "So you mean to say that canvas is good enough _for Picasso_ , but it's not good enough for _you two_?"

 

Adding angry eyebrows to his smiley face and matching it with a vicious grin of his own, Kavinsky drawled, " _Fuck Picasso_."

 

-

 

"So have him and Skov just been fucking all afternoon or what?" Jiang sounded thoroughly disgusted by the idea.

 

Clicking his tongue, leaning against Kavinsky's side on the newly-dried Mitsu's roof, Proko replied, "More or less."

 

"He must be pretty good," Jiang muttered. He was seated on the asphalt, a notebook open in front of him, scribbling a phoenix that looked very much like the one tattooed on the back of his left hand. Proko wondered for a moment if he had actually been the one to draw it. "Swan never fucks the same guy more than once."

 

"Swan really wants him," Proko murmured. "And I've talked to Skov a few times: He seems nice enough."  
  


Wrinkling his nose, Kavinsky pointed out, "He talks kinda like you. It's annoying."  
  


Pursing his lips and rolling his eyes, Proko countered, "You like the way I talk."

 

Kavinsky was quick to kiss away that pretty scowl, and from the ground, Jiang groaned, "You two disgust me."

 

Proko chased Kavinsky's lips when they parted, and Kavinsky smirked, turning to Jiang and asking, "Why? 'Cause it's my tongue down his throat and not yours?"

 

-

 

"I really like him, Proko."

 

It was only mildly surprising, though Swan seemed to be rather troubled by it. "You like _him_ ," Proko asked, carefully, "or you like what he does with his dick?"

 

Swan seemed to mull that over for a moment, lying on his stomach in bed, a flush rising in his cheeks when he said, smiling to himself, "Both."

 

"So ask him out."

 

Pulling the pillow tighter to his chest, Swan hid his face in the fabric, shaking his head and murmuring, "It's not that easy."

 

"Isn't it?" Proko didn't give Swan time to argue. "Look, Swan, you're _adorable_. You know that." Swan peeked past his pillow at that, smiling. "You really think he's gonna be able to turn you down?"

 

"Prob'ly not." It wasn't arrogance, but simple fact. Then, nibbling at his lower lip in a way that would have had anyone else pouncing, Swan asked, "Will you come with me?"

 

"Where?"

 

Swan's sheepish little smile was answer enough.

 

-

 

Proko had, in the end, gone to speak to Skov on his own the very next morning. They had a study hall together, and Proko cleared his throat to catch the other boy's attention. The hall was mostly empty, as study hall wasn't strictly mandatory, and the sound came out overly loud. Proko flinched.

 

Not looking up from an especially complicated bit of calculus, Skov asked, "Yes?"

 

"Can I talk to you?"

 

"You already are." There was no venom in Skov's voice, his soft, graceful accent rolling through the _R_ s. Lovely though it was, Proko couldn't place it. Hungarian, maybe? At his side was a half-empty water bottle, and when it opened it to take a drink, the smell made it clear that it wasn't actually water. "It's Prokopenko, isn't it?"

 

"Just Proko, please." Settling into the chair at Skov's side, Proko asked, "You know Swan likes you, don't you?"

 

"As often as we've slept together," Skov said, smiling a bit but still not glancing up, "I should hope he does."

 

Rolling his eyes and giving a soft huff of laughter, Proko said, "Fair enough." Then his smile fell, and he said, "He's thinking about asking you out. He's nervous, though. He's never done it before, and he's afraid you'll shoot him down."

 

At long last, Skov looked up, his eyes bluer than any Proko had ever seen, and he said, his voice soft, "I wouldn't dream of it."

 

-

 

"Swan?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

It was breathy, soft, and very clearly not a response to Kavinsky. Kavinsky, of course, knew it, asking, "You're fucking him right now, aren't you?"

 

"He's fucking me, actually." Kavinsky and Proko shared a shiver at Swan's voice. Even Jiang seemed moved, the faintest hint of a blush rising in his cheeks. Four days, and they were still at it. It was ridiculous. Proko sort of envied them, actually. "I'm not much of a top."

 

Licking his lips, sparing Proko a dark-eyed glance, Kavinsky said, "Me and Proko and Jiang are skipping afternoon classes. Got somewhere more important to be. You're coming with us. Meet us in the lot in ten minutes." He had a hand at the back of Proko's neck before he even hung up.

 

-

 

It took a bit longer than ten minutes for Swan to show up in the lot, clinging cheerfully to the arm of another boy.

 

Tall and slender, ivory-skinned and silver-haired, he seemed a cold, exquisite statue. The faint smile lingering in the corners of his blue, blue eyes was the only warmth to be seen on him.

 

Proko could do nothing to hide his own smile.

 

Swan, too, grinned, bright and brilliant, saying, strangely nervous, "This is Skov."

 

Raising a brow, though he looked more amused than anything else, Kavinsky was quick to point out, "We all got classes with him, man."

 

"Well, I know, but introducing your boyfriend to your friends properly is important, yeah?"

 

" _Boyfriend_?" Jiang scoffed the word.

 

"Mm-hmm." With a shy smile, Swan admitted, "Seeing Proko and Kavinsky all the time..." He shrugged, hugging Skov's arm tighter.

 

His smile warming a bit, Skov muttered, mock-offended, "And here I was thinking it was because you liked me."

 

Giving a smile of his own, Swan pressed his cheek to Skov's shoulder. With the great height difference between them, it was all the higher he could reach. "Is it okay if we bring him along?" No one could turn down the honey-sweetness in Swan's voice.

 

Kavinsky, at the very least, _challenged_ it, asking, "Can he keep up?"

 

"Of course I can." Skov clicked a button on the key fob he pulled from his pocket, and down the line of cars in the lot, a candy-blue Mazda chirped.

 

Grinning, Kavinsky scoffed, "Nice."

 

-

 

Proko _thoroughly_ hated the Mitsubishi's new paint job.

 

Cruising along the highway with the passenger's-side window down, he dropped his arm along the side of the car, tracing the splatters of paint. Absently, he said, "It looks awful."

 

"I like it." There was no arguing with that tone. "And Jiang likes it. Isn't that what counts? _Artistic statements_ and shit."

 

"And shit," Proko agreed.

 

Casting a sidelong glance at Proko, Kavinsky said, "Fucker's crazy about you, y'know."

 

Ignoring a pang of guilt, Proko murmured, "I know."

 

"You want him?"

 

Lying to Kavinsky was unconscionable, and so Proko simply said, "I want you more."

 

Reaching over to give Proko's thigh a possessive squeeze, Kavinsky replied, "Good boy." His attention was soon diverted, though, when Skov's candy-blue RX-7 darted past the Mitsu, Swan blowing a cheeky kiss through the window as they passed. "Did that son of a bitch just pass us?"

 

Doing his best to hold back a peal of laughter, Proko replied, "Pretty sure he did."

 

Behind them, Jiang's Supra growled, and he, too, darted past the Mitsubishi, squealing along the narrow mountain road, gravel flying out behind him and _thunking_ lightly along the Mitsu's side. Despite the cold, he held one arm out the window, flashing his middle finger as he zoomed ahead.

 

Shaking his head, though he looked thoroughly excited, Kavinsky muttered, "Fuckers're asking for it."

 

That mirth slipping free, Proko laughed, " _For what_?"

 

Kavinsky answered with a question of his own: "You buckled in, babe?"

 

Cautious thing that he was, Proko naturally replied, "Of course."

 

Again, Kavinsky purred, "Good boy."

 

And he stood on the accelerator.

 

-

 

Going off the road didn't seem logical, Proko thought, clinging to his seatbelt as the Mitsubishi plowed its way into a field of tall yellow-green grass, whipping up dust and grasshoppers all around.

 

A squeal of tires, and Jiang's Supra was on their tail, Skov and Swan following in the RX-7 not far behind.

 

Jiang was the one to pull up at the Mitsu's right, calling to Proko through the open window, "The fuck're we doing?"

 

Kavinsky was the one to answer, leaning around Proko to shout back, "Just follow me!"

 

A puff of pollen, a hand out the window to gesture Skov to follow, and the field ripped apart under their tires.

 

-

 

At the back of the field was a forest, all early-Spring greenery and calling birds and summer breeze.

 

Skov reached it first, followed by Jiang, tearing up tracks in the high grass as they coasted to a stop just short of the trees. Kavinsky followed behind with an especially impressive slide, the Mitsubishi jerking violently to the side, tires kicking patches of grass and dirt.

 

Slamming the Mitsu's door with more force than was necessary, Kavinsky stepped into the grass, Proko close on his heels.

 

"Took you long enough." Skov looked immensely pleased with himself, Swan clinging to his arm, Jiang at his opposite side, looking equally smug.

 

"Fuck you all." There was no venom in Kavinsky's voice.

 

Smiling in spite of himself, Proko asked, "Why did we stop here?"

 

All Kavinsky said was, "Look down."

 

Proko was the first to do so, furrowing his brow and lifting one foot, clearly puzzled.

 

Kneeling, Swan picked up what appeared to be a crushed shell of some kind, asking, "Are these oysters?"

 

Snatching the shell away, Jiang turned it this way and that, sunlight catching the nacre and lighting it up in his hand.

 

Dropping to one knee at Swan's side and pressing his palm to the strange path, Skov glanced to Kavinsky and asked, "Why are they here?"

 

"Someone put 'em here," Kavinsky said with a shrug.

 

"For what?" Proko asked.

 

Another shrug, and Kavinsky sighed, "Fuck if I know." Then he grabbed at Proko's wrist, saying, "C'mon."

 

"Where _are_ we going?" Swan was the one to ask, pressed against Skov's side despite the spring warmth all around them. They made a surprisingly pretty picture, tiny, dark, beautiful Swan pressed close to statuesque, marble-pale Skov. "We're kinda in the middle of nowhere, aren't we?"

 

Hesitating again, Kavinsky admitted, "I don't think it has a name."

 

At Kavinsky's side, Proko asked, "Is it far?"

 

"I dunno." Kavinsky's eyes turned skyward, the sunlight lighting them up to a warm, golden brown. "I'm not even sure it'll be there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skov is finally here! Sorry about the delay, but the last chapter felt really important. I felt like Proko needed to deal with his mother while we had time. Y'know, before the shit hits the fan. It's coming, guys. Be ready. 
> 
> Also, can you guess where the boys are headed? I tried not to make it painfully obvious, but I hope it's at least relatively clear.
> 
> Oh, oh, and have you guys noticed the last tag? The reveal isn't going to be for a few more chapters, but I thought I'd bring it to your attention :) It's causing me a great deal of anxiety to write such a character, as I've never done it before, but I've always wanted to, so!


	10. Chapter 9

****

It was, in fact, _there_ : Over the strange path of crushed shells and through the defunct field and past a tiny, bubbling stream was the forest.

 

With the oddly summer-blue sky and the too-thick-for-February canopy and the green, dewy grass, it was a thin step short of Paradise.

 

Kavinsky, though, seemed unnerved, sliding his fingertips against Proko's palm, a silent request for comfort. Proko, of course, complied, tangling their fingers together, palm to palm. He could feel the racing of Kavinsky's heart through calloused skin, and when he glanced down, he was startled to find Kavinsky biting his lip and glancing around with nervous eyes.

 

"This is beautiful!" Swan was clearly nothing less than enchanted.

 

At his side, Skov's eyes, blue as anything, were on the canopy, searching for the birds piping their strange songs into the air. His snakebite piercings flashed when he smiled.

 

Jiang, on Swan's other side, was more cautious, his dark gaze scanning the underbrush, sharp and lightning-quick.

 

Proko paid them little mind, squeezing Kavinsky's hand and asking, softly enough that the others wouldn't overhear, "What's wrong?"

 

"I've been here before."

 

Puzzled, Proko asked, "And...?"

 

"In my dreams." The other boys certainly heard _that_ , three pairs of wide eyes locking onto Kavinsky, though he hardly seemed to notice. "I didn't think it was a real place. I've only ever seen it in my head. Me and Lynch--"

 

Defensive, Jiang demanded, " _Which Lynch_?"

 

An eye-roll, and Kavinsky said, " _The middle one_. I've seen him here _in my dreams_."

 

"You _dream_ about him?" Jiang's lip curled. "That's not creepy or anything."

 

"It wasn't _about_ him." Kavinsky sounded only the slightest bit indignant. "He was just _there_."

 

Biting at his lip, Proko asked, "Like, a _regular_ dream, or...?" He trailed off, lifting both brows, prompting.

 

"A _stealing_ dream," Kavinsky said. There was very little hesitance in his voice. "I was grabbing a tie 'cause I couldn't find one, and he was here."

 

"You dream about stealing," Jiang muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. "Exactly no one is surprised."

 

" _Jiang_." Though it came gently, Jiang folded under Proko's chiding.

 

Squeezing Proko's hand, Kavinsky said, very softly, "They're not regular dreams."

 

-

 

Gathered around the base of a massive old tree, its trunk hollowed by rot, Kavinsky met each of the other boys' eyes in turn: Proko's frosty silver, Swan's brilliant gold, Jiang's mirror-black, Skov's summer-sky blue.

 

Though Proko looked rather worried, Kavinsky asked the others just the same, "Do you trust me?"

 

"'Bout as far as we can throw you," Jiang muttered.

 

Seated a few inches away, one arm tossed around Swan's shoulders, Skov pointed out, "If we all worked together, we could probably throw him a good five feet."

 

Though Jiang rolled his eyes, his little smirk was undeniable.

 

Ignoring them and grabbing at Proko's hand, giving it a rough squeeze, Kavinsky said, "I'm a dreamer." Not one to mince words, he added, "I can pull shit outta my dreams and into real life."

 

The silence that followed was filled with only birdsong and rustling leaves. Proko raised a brow.

 

Licking his lips, Swan was the one to speak first, gingerly asking, "Have you been drinking? 'Cause you really shouldn't be driving if you--"

 

"I'm not drunk." Kavinsky's voice was surprisingly even. "I know it sounds bat-shit, but I'm serious. _I can do it_."

 

All eyes turned to Proko then, and at his nod of acknowledgement, a disbelieving murmur went through the boys.

 

Though Swan looked curious, Jiang and Skov looked thoroughly skeptical.

 

Sighing, Kavinsky reached into the pocket of his uniform trousers, pulling out a little baggie of green pills. Leaning against Proko's side, he popped one into his mouth. "Be back in a minute," he said.

 

He was unconscious within seconds.

 

Eyes wide, Swan asked, "Is he...?"

 

"I don't know." Carefully, brushing dark hair away from Kavinsky's eyes, watching the movement of his irises behind sleep-purpled eyelids, Proko murmured, "Joey...?"

 

It was only a few more seconds before Kavinsky was back, blinking awake and holding out one hand. Resting in his palm were three tiny, silvery pills. Proko resisted the urge to roll his eyes: Those little pills were very familiar indeed.

 

"Okay," Jiang said, his head turned away slightly, narrow shoulders raised in a way that made his discomfort obvious, "that's creepy as fuck."

 

Crawling forward over the dewy grass to get a closer look, uncaring of the dampness soaking the knees of his too-tight jeans, Swan asked, "What are they?"

 

"Wonder pills. When we get back to the dorms, you're gonna take one."

 

"Okay." There was no hesitance when Swan accepted the offer of a pair of tablets, giving one to Skov, who studied it curiously, one ice-blonde brow lifted high.

 

Jiang was more hesitant, eyeing the pills and asking, "You trying to kill us with these?"

 

"If I was gonna kill you," Kavinsky said, smirking, "I'd use my hands."

 

-

 

It was late in the evening by the time one of the boys called.

 

It was, in fact, Jiang, breathlessly demanding through the phone, " _What was that_?"

 

Repressing a shudder when Proko's mouth moved against the side of his neck, warm and damp and butterfly-soft, Kavinsky simply said, "Wonder pills."

 

"Yeah, no shit."

 

Proko could feel Kavinsky's laughter through his lips.

 

"You could make a fortune selling those, y'know."

 

"What is it with you and money?"

 

"Finite resources," Jiang hissed, and Proko shivered, pressing closer to Kavinsky's chest. "Not all of us have a steady income. Like I said, you _ought to sell these_."

 

A roll of dark eyes, unseen to Jiang, and Kavinsky asked, "Where's the fun in that?"

 

There was a pause, filled with the soft, wet sound of Proko's pretty mouth on flushed skin, and Jiang eventually said, "We should have a party."

 

Pulling away from Kavinsky's neck, Proko pointed out, "Spring Break is less than two weeks away, though, and it'd take at least that long to set everything up, wouldn't it?"

 

" _Exactly_." The challenge in Jiang's voice was overwhelming, and Proko shuddered, hiding his face against Kavinsky's neck. "Booze and pills and music and fireworks and shit. Make it so huge that Spring Break _pales_ in comparison. It'd be _legendary_."

 

The idea seemed to catch Kavinsky's attention at last, and he asked, "You think they'll go for it? Being late for Spring Break over _a party_?"

 

"Cheng and the Vancouver boys will, at least."

 

" _Henry Cheng_?" Proko asked.

 

"I used to run with him, before I learned how tame he was. He's got this weird thing about, _if you're Asian, we should hang out_. 'S kinda racist, if you ask me."

 

"Didn't ask," Kavinsky muttered, and Proko covered it by saying, "I like him." He did, really. Henry Cheng knew who he was, and there were few things Proko found more admirable than that. The fact that he was intelligent and driven and energetic also helped.

 

Jiang, it seemed, did not agree. "Shut up, Proko." He didn't even pause long enough to make sure the order was followed. "I can get him, I'm sure of it. Swan can get a lotta people, too. Everyone loves him."

 

"Can you blame them? He's darling."

 

" _Proko_." It was nothing less than a command, and a little thrill raced down Proko's spine, heat flushing his cheeks and his ears and the back of his neck. "Shut your mouth and let the grownups talk." After Proko was silent for a few seconds, Jiang continued, "We're only sophomores, man, but if we can make this work, we'll have the whole goddamn school at our feet. Kavinsky, _we could be **kings**_."

 

-

 

 _We could be kings_.

 

Kavinsky had been rolling the words around for the better part of an hour before he scoffed, "I _am_ a king."

 

"Are you?"

 

"Got a tattoo that says so."

 

Sprawled beside Kavinsky on his bed, Proko propped himself up on one elbow, saying, "I didn't know you had a tattoo."

 

"Four, actually." Pursing his lips, Kavinsky amended, "Or three, I guess. Two of 'em are a matched pair."

 

Leaning in, Proko softly said, "Show me."

 

A wicked smirk, and Kavinsky replied, "You just want me to take my shirt off."

 

"Mm-hmm."

 

"You're spending too much time with Swan." He didn't sound at all bothered. "You're kinda turning into a slut." Just the same, Kavinsky sat up to pull his shirt off, that smirk widening when Proko straddled his hips, pushing him back down and tracing nimble fingers over old ink.

 

The matched set Kavinsky had spoken of was a pair of guns pointed inward and down, inked along the tantalizing crests of his hips. Higher up, on his right pectoral, was a crown, and Proko leaned in to press a kiss to its apex, asking, "Is this what you meant?"

 

"No." Though he was clearly hesitant, Kavinsky pushed Proko off him, rolling onto his stomach.

 

"Oh." Reaching out, Proko traced an old English letter _K_ , an _I_ , _N_ and _G_. _KING_. "It's lovely."

 

"That's definitely what a guy wants to hear." Sighing when Proko's fingers slid over his skin, Kavinsky murmured, "I dreamt it, y'know. One morning, I woke up and it was just _there_."

 

In lieu of an answer, Proko brushed his lips over the lower curve of the _G_.

 

Meeting Proko's eyes over his shoulder, Kavinsky said, "I dreamt one for you."

 

Pulling away just slightly, his hands pressed to the small of Kavinsky's back, Proko asked, "A tattoo?"

 

"You want it?"

 

Biting his lip for a moment, Proko asked, typically cautious, "What's it look like?"

 

Pushing himself onto his hands and rolling back onto his back, Kavinsky simply asked, "Do you trust me?"

 

There wasn't even a second's hesitation: "Of course I do." When Kavinsky grabbed at the back of Proko's neck, the opposite hand at his hip, maneuvering him to sprawl across his lap, Proko went willingly, turning his head to meet Kavinsky's dark eyes over his shoulder, already shivering a bit.

 

Threading one hand into Proko's hair, nails scratching gently at Proko's scalp, Kavinsky asked, "Ready?"

 

A nod, and Kavinsky's fingers came to the hollow behind Proko's left ear, pressing something small and stinging against sensitive skin, and Proko hissed, hands fisting in the fabric at the other boy's thighs.

 

Bending, Kavinsky said to him, soft and secretive, "Hurts, doesn't it?"

 

"Mm-hmm." It was more a purr than a real answer, and Proko shuddered, pressing his forehead to Kavinsky's thigh, pale eyes squeezing shut. Though he'd never gotten a tattoo, Proko was fairly certain that this _felt_ like getting a real one: The drag of a piercing needle over his skin, stabbing and stabbing, stinging and burning. It was _exquisite_ , and he did his best to muffle a needy little whimper against Kavinsky's thigh. When he slid one hand beneath the hem of Joey's oversized basketball shorts, though, he furrowed his brow at the raised texture of the skin there. Lifting his head and turning to catch Joey's eyes and asking, "What's this?"

 

"I said I had a scar, didn't I?"

 

"From your mother's nightmare?"

 

"Yeah." He didn't seem at all bothered by it. He pulled his hand away from Proko's ear far too soon for Proko's taste, resting it instead at the small of Proko's back, firm and possessive. "Looks good on you."

 

Reaching up to touch the still-stinging skin, Proko asked, his voice soft and breathy, "Does it?"

 

A smirk, and Kavinsky asked, "Thought you trusted me?"

 

" _I do_." Biting at his lower lip for a moment, Proko asked, "Do _you_ trust _me_?"

 

"Babe, I don't even trust _myself_."

 

It was to be expected, Proko supposed, and instead of wallowing in a brief bout of self-pity, he asked, "Can I see the scar?"

 

"If you suck my dick, maybe."

 

Again, Proko didn't hesitate in the slightest: "Okay." Shifting around so he was on his knees between Joey's legs, Proko rested his hands against tattooed hips, glancing up to meet dark eyes, asking permission when his hands slid to the waistband of Kavinsky's shorts.

 

The calloused hand Kavinsky tangled into his hair was answer enough, and Proko slid the waistband of Kavinsky's shorts down a bit, surprised to find that he was more interested in the scarring than he was in doing what Joey had asked of him.

 

It was surprisingly widespread, sprawling from the base of Kavinsky's ribcage down his left side and his hip and his thigh, ending mere inches above his knee, curling along his inner thigh and around to his back, to the base of his spine. Though it was clearly old, it was still pink and raw-looking. Proko pressed his lips to a particularly raised scar, as gently as he could manage. Meeting Kavinsky's eyes again, he asked, "Does it hurt?"

 

"Sometimes." There was a surprisingly vulnerability in Kavinsky's voice, and Proko leaned up to nuzzle at the sharp curve of his jaw, shuddering when chapped lips mouthed at the new ink behind his ear.

 

Pushing himself up to straddle tattooed hips, Proko pressed one hand to Kavinsky's chest, covering the crown tattoo there and saying, "I want one like this."

 

"Yeah?"

 

Proko could taste ink when he pressed his lips to the tattoo again, curling his arm around Kavinsky's waist and clinging close. "Yeah."

 

A smirk, and Kavinsky pulled him up for a kiss. Against soft lips, he murmured, "Anything for you, princess."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, we're getting near the end! Only five chapters after this! D: 
> 
> But we got tattoos and Cabeswater and scars and history and future plans in this chapter, so I like this one better than most, and that's always good
> 
> And next chapter, there's some Henry, some Vancouver Crowd, and a rather violent encounter


	11. Chapter 10

"If I didn't know better, Ilya, I'd think you were avoiding me."

 

Filling his voice with false offense, Proko gasped, "Grandmama, I would never!"

 

"I said _if I didn't know better_." There was smoky laughter in Oksana's voice. "I obviously _do_ know better."

 

"Obviously," Proko agreed.

 

A scoff, and Oksana asked, "Are you sassing your grandmama?"

 

"I sass everyone."

 

"Very true." A beat, and Oksana half-demanded, "You _will_ be coming home for Spring Break, yes? I've not seen you since you left."

 

Sighing, Proko replied, "I know, I'm sorry." Truly, he was.

 

"I can understand staying with him over Thanksgiving." It didn't sound like she understood. "Christmas was even permissible, but there is no emotional connotation to Spring Break. You have no reason to linger at Aglionby." That, she was entirely sure of. "I'm sure your _Joey_ is perfectly capable of partying on his own."

 

"I know." It felt wrong, admitting it. "I'm going to be a few days late, but I _am_ coming home. I miss you." Then, carefully, Proko added, "And he won't be on his own. Jiang's going to stay with him."

 

" _Jiang_?"

 

Though he knew his grandmama couldn't see it, Proko ducked a bit to hide the flush tinting his cheeks. "One of the boys. Skov and Swan'll be around for the first few days of the break, but Jiang's sticking with Joey the whole while."

 

"Tell me about him."

 

Gnawing at his lower lip for a moment, Proko lay back against his pillow and asked, "What do you want to know?"

 

"I want to know," Oksana said, with surprising care, "that my grandson has better friends than Joseph Kavinsky."

 

-

 

"You're coming with me," Jiang said, catching Proko's wrist as they crossed the courtyard together after class a few days later.

 

That was it: No preamble, no explanation. Though he was not particularly worried about being alone in Jiang's presence, Proko was thoroughly nervous about leaving Kavinsky without his own presence, pointing out, "Joey and Lynch--" He could see them across the courtyard, already with clenched hands and clenched jaws and sharp, glaring eyes. Proko wouldn't have minded being between them, though he didn't say so: He was certain Jiang knew already.

 

"Gansey won't let 'em go on too long," Jiang said with a careless shrug, reaching his free hand up to undo the chaotic knot of his tie, leaving the striped silk loose around his neck.

 

To distract himself when Jiang undid the top two buttons of his shirt, Proko asked, "Gansey?"

 

" _Golden boy_ over there." Jiang jerked his chin toward a particularly handsome boy who was making his way over to where Kavinsky and the middle Lynch were standing. "Never gonna understand what Cheng sees in him."

 

"You sound jealous."

 

Instead of arguing, Jiang simply murmured, "I got a nasty habit of only wanting things I can't have."

 

This time, when Jiang tugged on his wrist, Proko followed, asking, "Where are we going?"

 

Seeming disgusted with the name itself, Jiang sneered, " _Litchfield House_."

 

One brow lifting as they stepped into the parking lot, Proko asked, "Litchfield House?"

 

"Cheng and the Vancouver boys live there." Jiang rolled his eyes, afternoon sun catching in mirror-black. Those eyes were shark-like in their intensity, fierce and hungry, and Proko flinched when they focused on him, the tips of his ears pinkening. "I'm not going by myself."

 

With a little smirk, Proko muttered, "Wouldn't have taken you for a coward."

 

"Fuck you." It sounded more like a challenge than an insult. With Jiang, it usually did. "I used to live with 'em, you dick. I'm not welcome there anymore, but if I bring someone interesting along, they might make an exception."

 

Shaking his head, Proko murmured, half to himself, "I'm not interesting."

 

Again, " _Fuck you_."

 

-

 

As soon as the door opened on Jiang, as soon as he sweetly said, " _Auntie_ ," as soon as an older Asian lady with eyes nearly as sharp as his recognized him, it had slammed shut again.

 

Kavinsky's voice echoed in Proko's head: " _Auspicious_."

 

Rolling his eyes, Jiang pressed his ear to the door for a long moment before he fished deep into the pockets of his uniform trousers, eventually coming away with a set of keys. "Never," he said to Proko, his voice a conspirator's whisper as he pulled forward the one he needed, "live anywhere without having your own key made."

 

A slide of metal, and Jiang pushed the door open, grabbing at Proko's wrist and dragging him through the main room, to the stairs off the side of the space. Though he looked cautious enough, Proko got the feeling he'd done this many times before. He was sure to skip over the fourth step, saying simply, his voice still soft, "It creaks."

 

Proko, too, avoided it, and they soon stopped in the first of the many doorways lining the hall.

 

They found Henry Cheng inside, seated on the wooden floor, his back pressed to the side of a bed, an anatomy textbook in hand, though he was clearly no longer paying attention to it. He was, instead, watching them as they watched him, his head tipped to one side like a curious owl. Proko smothered a smile as best he could.

 

"Jiang." Cheng only sounded slightly surprised, and at that, it didn't even seem to be an _unpleasant_ surprise. "Didn't Auntie kick you out the last time she caught you making cheat sheets?"

 

Jiang was, alas, unamused, and so he said nothing.

 

Looking a bit puzzled, Cheng's dark, glittering eyes shifted to Proko, and he asked, "Aren't you and _Joseph Kavinsky_ an item?" Without waiting for an answer, he said, more to himself than to Proko or Jiang, "Running with Kavinsky..."

 

"Kavinsky's a bastard," Jiang agreed, thoroughly ignoring the dirty look Proko shot him for it, "but Proko here wouldn't let him hurt me. Not in a way I didn't like."

 

A sigh, and Cheng pressed his lips together, his attention shifting to the door when another boy appeared there, looking troubled and asking, "What's up?"

 

Cheng shook his head, replying, "It's just Jiang."

 

The other boy didn't leave, instead steeping around Proko and Jiang and kneeling at Cheng's side, looming like a guard dog. The fact that he was slender and even smaller than Cheng was didn't seem to matter. It was rather sweet, in Proko's opinion, though Jiang was less than moved, saying, " _Back off, Koh_."

 

Still, Koh remained. There was a sharpness to him, shiny and well-honed, though Proko sensed something of a kindred soul in him: As he was at Kavinsky's beck and call, Koh was at Cheng's. When their eyes met, barely-blue on a shade of blue so dark it was nearly black, Koh offered an acknowledging nod.

 

Sparing Koh only brief a glance, Jiang pulled a bottle of familiar silver pills from the pocket of his trousers, tossing them in Cheng's direction and saying, "Try 'em."

 

Cheng simply raised a dubious eyebrow, though Koh was peering over his shoulder with very obvious interest.

 

"There's gonna be a party the second night of Spring Break." Nodding at the pill bottle in Cheng's hand, Jiang added, "There'll be a lot more where that came from."

 

"Where _did_ they come from?" Cheng was the one to ask.

 

"Kavinsky." Parroting Joey, though Proko doubted it was intentional, Jiang asked, "Do you trust me?"

 

"Of course I don't."

 

Cheng said it so candidly that Proko couldn't hold back a little huff of laughter, and stepping closer to Jiang, he said, "I've taken them myself. They won't hurt you."

 

From beside Cheng, Koh raised his eyes, asking, "What do they do?"

 

In lieu of a proper answer, Proko merely bit at his lower lip, eyes darting away as a slight flush rose in his cheeks.

 

Koh seemed to understand just fine, saying simply, "Oh."

 

Flashing a rather disgusted look at the pill bottle, Cheng tossed it back to Jiang, saying, "I don't want them."

 

"Your mother might."

 

Something dark flashed behind Cheng's eyes for a moment, and he cast a brief glance down at Koh before he asked Jiang again, " _Where did they come from_?"

 

Dropping the bottle to the floor, the silvery pills scattering like stars over the dark wood, a few rolling onto the rug in the center of the room, Jiang said, "I already told you, stupid: _Kavinsky_."

 

-

 

Lunch the next day had Cheng and Koh and the rest of the Litchfield boys staring across the cafeteria, and Proko did his best to ignore it, shrinking into himself and desperately wishing for Kavinsky's presence.

 

Gnawing at his fork, though there was no food left on it to taste, Proko asked, more to himself than the others, " _Where is he_?"

 

"Kavinsky?" Skov was the one to ask. "I don't think he's been to class lately."

 

"Has he just been showing up for lunch, then?" Swan asked, one well-kept brow lifting in a mixture of confusion and concern.

 

Sighing softly, Proko asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"

 

Looking genuinely apologetic, Skov said, "I figured you knew."

 

With a careless shrug, Jiang asked, "Fucker tells you everything, doesn't he?"

 

"Most things," Proko corrected.

 

Jiang looked distinctly unimpressed at that.

 

Sighing, Proko muttered, "You've got to stop being like this, Jiang."

 

"Like _what_?"

 

The sharpness in Jiang's voice had a slight flush tinting Proko's cheeks, and to cover it, he replied, " _Jealous_. You need to stop being so jealous."

 

"I'll stop being jealous," Jiang hissed, his words muffled around the straw he'd stuffed into his milk carton, which he was currently chewing on as if it had offended him, "when you realize that Joseph Kavinsky is a piece of shit and you could do a Hell of a lot better."

 

Rolling icy eyes, Proko snapped, "Look, Jiang, you're my friend, but this _has got to stop_. I love him, and that's not--" The very second that that vicious little word slipped past his lips, Proko hid his face in his hands, mumbling, "I didn't mean that."

 

Across the table, smiling, Swan murmured, "Yes, you did."

 

"I didn't--"

 

" _Yes, you did_." It came on a snarl, and underneath that fearsome glare, there was hurt, clear as day in Jiang's dark eyes.

 

Running both hands through his hair, Proko murmured, "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

 

"He ever hurts you in a way you don't like," Jiang suddenly said, "if anyone does, _tell me_. I'll kick their ass."

 

 _He would_ , Proko knew, and, odd as it was, he appreciated it.

 

"If Joseph Kavinsky ever breaks your heart, _I'll break his fucking neck_."

 

-

 

" _You can't tell him_."

 

Swan somberly shook his head, saying, "Absolutely not." It sounded almost like rote. It was, after all, the third time Proko had made that demand, and only two hours had passed since the confession had been made. "It's your thing to tell him, not mine."

 

His voice soft, nearly drowned out by the rustling of spring breeze in the courtyard grass, Proko murmured, "I don't think I even _want_ to tell him."

 

" _Proko_." Though spoken softly, gently, it was a command. "You _need_ to tell him. I'd bet he's never heard those three li'l words in all his life."

 

The pang in Proko's chest couldn't be ignored, and he asked, "Can you get notes for me? I'm going to go check on him."

 

"Yeah, 'course."

 

"Thanks."

 

It sounded weak, and when Proko turned, Swan called, "And Proko?"

 

"Yes?"

 

" _Tell him_." Proko just bit his lip a little, and when he said no more, Swan continued, "He deserves to know."

 

-

 

"Elisaveta? This is Ilya Prokopenko. Is Joey--"

 

"He has no cause to speak with you."

 

Surprising himself, Proko said, "You don't speak for him, Elisaveta."

 

And she hung up.

 

Flopping back in his Golf's driver's seat, Proko groaned. He'd already tried calling and texting Kavinsky on multiple occasions, to no avail. And now the home phone had been proven useless, too. He was beginning to worry. It wasn't like Joey to ignore him.

 

Though Elisaveta was thoroughly intimidating, Proko soon straightened. He'd come too far to leave now, and he climbed out of the car and onto the spray-painted concrete of the Kavinsky mansion's driveway.

 

When he knocked on the front door, he was met by Elisaveta Kavinsky, glaring up at him with blown-dark, sleep-shadowed eyes, a lit cigarette dangling from her red-nailed fingers. Curling her lip, she hissed at him, "Stubborn boy."

 

"Very," Proko agreed, and gently nudged her aside.

 

Up the winding stairs and down a desolate hallway was Kavinsky's room, and Proko found himself hesitating at the door. Steeling himself, he knocked.

 

There was a rustling of fabric, an irritated groan, then Kavinsky's voice, snarling, "I'm busy!"

 

Softly, Proko asked, "Too busy for me?"

 

"Pretty goddamn busy," Kavinsky shot back.

 

The annoyance was obviously a front, and Proko smiled to himself as he stepped inside. Closing the door behind himself, he asked, "Where have you been?"

 

"A _hello_ would be nice."

 

Rolling his eyes, Proko stepped closer, hiking one knee up onto the bed, leaning in to brush his lips against K's. "Hi."

 

"Hey."

 

When he pulled away, Proko asked, "Where have you been, Joey?"

 

"Here, mostly."

 

"But you've been showing up for lunch," Proko pointed out.

 

A smirk, and Kavinsky said, "Gotta keep an eye on you."

 

Feigning offense, Proko asked, "Are you saying you don't trust me?" He knew better, of course.

 

"I'm saying I don't trust Jiang."

 

"Fair enough." Leaning against Kavinsky's side, Proko asked, "What have you been doing?"

 

"Dreaming."

 

Proko shivered when Kavinsky lifted a hand to the back of his neck, warm and rough and possessive. "Pills?"

 

"Some booze, too." Kavinsky jerked his chin toward a pile of glass and plastic bottles of all shapes and sizes littering the floor beside his bed. Then, smirking again, he met Proko's eyes and added, "Plus your tattoo."

 

Pulling away just enough to meet Kavinsky's eyes, Proko asked, "You actually did it?"

 

"'Course I did." Kavinsky said it as though it should be the most obvious thing in the world. "You said you wanted it, didn't you?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"Well, come with me and I'll give it to you."

 

Though Proko had no intention of _not_ going, he asked just the same, "Come with you _where_?"

 

" _My land_." Pushing himself up to sit against the pillows, Kavinsky said, "I'm a _landowner_ now." Then he turned away, leaning toward the bedside table. A sniffle, and he straightened, wiping a hand beneath his nose.

 

Fighting back a sigh, disappointed but unsurprised, Proko asked, "Where did you get it?"

 

"The land?"

 

Letting that sigh slip, Proko muttered, "You're too smart to play dumb."

 

"Don't worry about it."

 

"Joey, you know--"

 

" _Don't preach at me_." It was a command, and Kavinsky wiped at his nose again, wincing when Proko leaned in to wipe a bit of blood away with the sleeve of his uniform shirt. Softly, he added, "Runs in the family. Mom's prob'ly not even sober enough to realize her stash's gone missing. She hasn't been sober since we got here."

 

"I don't care if it _does_ run in the family." It was preachy as all Hell, and Proko steadfastly ignored the dirty look Kavinsky shot him for it. "Joey, you're so much better than this."

 

"Would you stop calling me that?"

 

" _It's your name_." Proko was more surprised than Kavinsky was at the fierceness of his tone. "You are _Joseph Kavinsky_ , you are a dreamer and a fighter and the toughest person I know, and you are _infinitely_ better than this."

 

A roll of blown-dark eyes, and Kavinsky muttered, "Who do you think you are, Ilya?"

 

"The only one who's willing to keep you in line, apparently."

 

For a long moment, Kavinsky simply glared. Then, his face splitting into a wide, wild grin, he gave a single huff of laughter, agreeing, "Apparently!"

 

Proko, on the other hand, was unamused, asking, "What reason could you possibly have for--"

 

Rolling his eyes again, Kavinsky said, "Get in the car _and I'll show you_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though Henry's role in this fic is small, it is really, really important. He and Jiang are setting some serious shit in motion. Also: Koh. He's a bit of a foil for Proko, and I really wish I could have worked him deeper into the fic
> 
> And, Jesus, Proko! Finally he says it. I'm so proud of him :) I am not so very proud of K. As Proko becomes a stronger person, K is getting worse, and the worst is yet to come
> 
> Oh, and that last tag is going to be revealed in the next chapter! I'm kinda nervous but mostly excited :)


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to friend Diglossia for helping out with this chapter :)

Driving along the outskirts of Henrietta, an arm dangling out the Golf's driver's-side window, Proko said, "Your mother hates me."

 

"She hates everyone."

 

Biting his tongue for a moment, tightening his grip on the steering wheel, Proko asked, "Even you?"

 

A humorless laugh, and Kavinsky replied, "Especially me."

 

"Why?"

 

Under his breath, staring out the passenger's-side window, Kavinsky muttered, "Long story."

 

"We've got time."

 

"You don't even know where we're going."

 

"Even once we get there," Proko shot back, "I'm not going to let you stop until you've finished the story."

 

Another scoff, and Kavinsky began. "The reason my parents met was because Mom was one of the items being advertised by one of the other magical-artifacts dealers, Niall Lynch."

 

Furrowing his brow, Proko parroted, " _Lynch_? As in...?"

 

"Yeah." Kavinsky only seemed marginally irritated by the interruption. "Naturally, the old man bought her and married her, and eventually, she had me."

 

"But how could she possibly hate you?" The very thought of it had bile rising in Proko's throat. "You're her own flesh and blood!"

 

"Doesn't _your_ mother hate _you_?" When Proko have no reply, his eyes going steely, pretty lips pressing together, Kavinsky carried on. "It's my fault, kinda, that she's even in this situation. The old man married her 'cause he wanted an heir, and it had to be her 'cause dreaming's more or less hereditary. A kid's easier to control than a wife."

 

Sighing, Proko said, "That's not fair."

 

"That's how she sees it."

 

Biting his lip bloody, Proko asked, "She doesn't treat you the way your father does, does she?"

 

"If you can't tell," Kavinsky said, a tiny, mirthless smile on his lips, "it just means she's more subtle about it than he is."

 

-

 

"Stop the car." It was a command, and Proko obeyed, coasting to a stop along the dusty shoulder of the road. "This is the place."

 

 _The place_ , as it proved, was an abandoned fairground on the outskirts of town, all withered grass and tattered decorations. At its entrance was a white-painted ticket booth, and Proko trailed his fingers against its side as they passed it, flakes of white coming away with his touch.

 

Further into the field was a worn dirt track, a thick copse of trees behind, all of it hemmed in by a rusty chain-link fence.

 

Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his oversized basketball shorts, Kavinsky jerked his chin toward the trees, calling, "C'mon." When Proko arrived at his side, he said, "This is all mine, too, but the fun part's past the fence."

 

Sticking close together, Kavinsky still sniffling against his nosebleed, they headed behind the trees, hopping the rusted fence and stepping onto another patch of overgrown flatland.

 

"Oh." Proko's voice was weak. "This is what you've been working on."

 

"Mm-hmm."

 

Tracing one hand along the smooth roof of one of a hundred familiar white Mitsubishis, Proko asked, "Recurring dreams?"

 

"You could say that." Stepping behind Proko, hands on narrow hips, lips against soft skin, Kavinsky asked, "You want that tattoo now?" There was alcohol on his breath.

 

Shivering despite the warmth of Kavinsky's mouth at his neck, Proko said, "What I want is for you to clean up your act."

 

"No."

 

"Stop with the drugs. Quit drinking. Go to class."

 

" _No_."

 

"Not even for me?"

 

A sharp nip to Proko's nape, and Kavinsky murmured against flushed skin, "Not even for you."

 

-

 

A few nights later, the boys had gathered in Proko and Swan's shared dorm, Proko and K on Proko's bed, Skov and Swan on his. Jiang sat cross-legged on the nightstand between the beds, the lamp and alarm clocks on the floor to give him space. He looked half a god, wild and shark-eyed and oddly pretty, enshrined on a tiny wooden pedestal, and Proko gave him a smile.

 

"You gonna invite your boy?"

 

Kavinsky's question came out sounding like an insult, and Proko rolled his eyes.

 

Jiang scowled.

 

"Ignore him," Proko suggested. "He's just pissy because he hasn't been sleeping. He's too busy dreaming."

 

Jiang, of course, refused to back down from Kavinsky's challenge, meeting dark eyes with darker ones and hissing, "Fuck you."

 

"You don't seem to care that Proko's mine," Kavinsky said, shrugging and winding an arm around Proko's hips, sliding him closer along the bed, though Proko squirmed away near-instantly. "Why should you care if _Deccie's_ got a girlfriend?"

 

That one, Jiang _did_ ignore, turning his dark eyes on Proko and asking, irritated and incredulous, "Why the fuck do you put up with him?"

 

It wasn't Proko, but Kavinsky who answered: " _Because he's **mine**_."

 

" _Suck my dick_."

 

It came on a fearsome snarl, but the effect was more or less ruined when Swan pointed out, "You don't have a dick."

 

" _One_ , **_yes_** _, I do_." There was, surprisingly, very little venom in Jiang's voice, his eyes darting to Proko for a moment, gauging his reaction. He didn't seem to care at all for how Kavinsky would respond.

 

When Kavinsky's eyes rolled, Proko elbowed him.

 

" _Two_ , you'd be honored if I let you go fuck yourself on it."

 

Swan didn't argue that point, instead smiling in an oddly proud way, leaning back into Skov's arms. Skov seemed equally untroubled.

 

"And _three_..." Jiang's smirk had Proko shivering, though Swan was entirely unfazed. "It's a _helluva lot_ bigger than yours."

 

-

 

"Proko." There was a command in Jiang's voice, and Proko snapped to attention. "Walk me home."

 

Wrinkling his nose, Kavinsky was quick to point out, "It's literally two minutes away."

 

A little smirk on his lips, Jiang hopped down from the nightstand he'd been sitting on, saying, "Then you won't miss him for long." Then he met Proko's eyes.

 

Tossing a quick glance at Kavinsky, Proko followed, painfully aware of the drag of Joey's fingers along his hip as he stood, of Joey's eyes on him as he quietly left the room.

 

Out in the quiet of the hallway, the silence was deafening, and into it, Jiang asked, "This isn't gonna change things, is it?"

 

" _This_?"

 

"Don't play dumb." Jiang only sounded mildly annoyed, and Proko noted that he didn't seem hesitant to mention such things in the open. Though there were other students bustling about. He didn't seem to care in the slightest when he added, " _Me being trans_." Then he glanced over his shoulder, catching Proko's eyes with his own, asking more urgently, "Is it gonna change things?"

 

Meaning every word, Proko replied, "Why would it?"

 

Dark eyes dropping to the floor as he walked, Jiang murmured, "It's kind of a big deal, and I kept it from you." When Proko made no move to reply, he added, "Swan's been telling me to tell you for weeks. Said it was unfair to hide it."

 

Still, Proko said nothing, biting at his lip, and Jiang raised a brow at him.

 

At that look, Proko admitted, "I don't really understand." Jiang's face fell. "But it's still _you_. We're _friends_. I'm not about to walk out on you."

 

Jiang stopped then, turning on the hardwood to level Proko with a soft, furrow-browed stare. "You're too good to be true, y'know that?" There was something almost envious in his voice.

 

A scoff, and Proko lifted his fingers to the fresh ink behind his ear. Very softly, he admitted, "I'm not as good as you think."

 

-

 

"And we'll be having the party here?" In the field of Mitsubishis that weekend, Skov's voice carried, echoing off metal and into the open sky.

 

"Yep." Kavinsky, his arm draped about Proko's hips, looked immensely proud of himself. That expression faded when he turned to face Jiang, asking, "Who all've we got coming?"

 

"Wait a moment." Furrowing his brow, Skov asked, "You _dreamt_ all of these, K?"

 

Kavinsky replied with a question of his own, asking, " _K_?"

 

Shrugging broad shoulders, Skov said, "Your name is difficult." It was a fair point, Proko supposed. When Skov spoke Joey's family name, it came out overly graceful: _Kah- **veen**_ - _skee_. It sounded pretty, but _pretty_ was thoroughly unfitting for someone like Joseph Kavinsky. " _K_ is easier."

 

"All right, _K_ ," Jiang said, testing the nickname, "Cheng and the Vancouver boys are definitely coming." Jiang pulled his phone from his jeans pocket as he spoke, scrolling through his contacts. "Ryang said they practically had an orgy the night they tried the pills. Good thing they waited 'til Woo was out grocery shopping to use 'em, or she'd've kicked 'em out on their asses." He shrugged. "They're boring, but at least they're smart." He glanced up from his phone just long enough to add, "And I'm trying to get Declan to come."

 

"'Course y'are," Swan cooed, and Jiang shot a glare at him.

 

"God knows he could use it," Jiang muttered, his gaze dropping to the ground. He seemed to be genuinely bothered, and Proko ignored a little twinge in his chest. "You hear about his old man?"

 

Paying them no mind, Kavinsky turned to Skov, asking, "Who else?"

 

"Most of the stoners, probably," Skov said with a careless shrug. "Locals and a few from the neighboring schools. They're all going crazy over those pills. Probably ought to name them properly. I've just been calling them _Aglionby ravenous_."

 

" _Aglionby ravenous_." Kavinsky couldn't possibly have sounded less impressed. "Kind of a mouthful, innit?"

 

 _It had a nice ring_ , Proko thought, and he said, "It's kind of clever. Aglionby _ravens_ , raven-ous, _ravenous_. I think it's sort of sexy."

 

That seemed to satisfy Kavinsky, and Skov gave Proko a slight smile, his snakebite piercings glinting under the afternoon sun.

 

"Carruthers and his li'l clique'll be there," Swan said, taking the pause as his cue. "The soccer and tennis and rowing teams, too. They're counting it as a _bonding experience_ , I hear. Gansey doesn't plan to come, though." Swan didn't seem bothered by it. "He'll be babysitting Lynch, prob'ly, though I wouldn't put is past Lynch to sneak in on his own. That's, what, thirty people or more?"

 

Dryly, Jiang asked, "How many of 'em did you have to fuck for 'em to agree to come?"

 

With a smirk that would've been far more suitable on Kavinsky's face, Swan replied, "Only twelve."

 

-

 

"Do you know how long he's been missing class?"

 

"Kavinsky, y'mean?" Swan asked, pulling a sweater over his head. Last night had brought in a cold chill, and sunrise had done nothing to ward it off. "Just a few days. Three, I think."

 

Slipping on his own sweater, Proko murmured, "It's not fair. He has no right to get all jealous if he's not even _here with me_."

 

Grabbing his bag from the floor, Swan replied, "We thought you knew." He sounded profoundly apologetic. "Like Jiang said, Kavinsky pretty much tells you everything."

 

To that, Proko said nothing, merely grabbing his own bag and following Swan out into the hallway. It was already bustling with students on their way to class, and Proko was thoroughly grateful for the sudden cool of stepping outside.

 

He was more grateful to find Kavinsky waiting, leaning against the brick of the building, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, decked out in his uniform and looking utterly disinterested, those terrible sunglasses hiding his eyes.

 

Kavinsky shot a look at Swan, who simply smiled before he wandered off, briefly squeezing Proko's shoulder before he headed to homeroom.

 

"You're not supposed to smoke on campus," Proko said in lieu of a proper greeting, and Kavinsky's eyes rolled behind his shades.

 

"Y'think I--"

 

Proko was quick to snatch the cigarette away, tossing it into the grass before he leaned in to steal the last of the smoke from Kavinsky's lungs with a soft kiss. When they parted, reluctant though he was to pull away, Proko murmured against chapped lips, "I'm glad you're here."

 

"Yeah, well." Another kiss, and Kavinsky tossed one arm around Proko's shoulders, mouthing at the tiny _K_ tattooed behind his ear and saying, "We got a li'l business to do before class."

 

" _Business_?" Though Proko was obviously skeptical, he let Kavinsky lead him across the courtyard just the same. "Are you officially a drug dealer now?"

 

"Nah. Skov does the dealing for me. I can't negotiate prices very well." He made a careless, nearly laughable flapping gesture with one hand. He and Swan seemed to be learning from one another. It was strangely cute. " _Temper_ , and all that."

 

"Ah." Proko made sure to keep the disapproval in his voice thick. "So what are we doing, then?"

 

"Handing out an invitation."

 

Raising a brow, Proko asked, "And you couldn't get Swan or Jiang to do it for you?"

 

"I wanted to do this one myself."

 

When the middle Lynch came into view, standing close to another, exquisitely handsome boy, Proko did his best to keep himself from pulling Kavinsky back.

 

He seemed to notice Proko's hesitation all the same, murmuring a quick, "You don't gotta be jealous," before he called, "Lynch!"

 

Lynch didn't dignify him with a response.

 

Rolling his eyes, his arm falling from Proko's shoulders, Kavinsky called, " _Yo_!"

 

The ice in Lynch's eyes had Proko flinching, though Kavinsky hardly responded at all, simply raising a brow and asking, "New hairdo, princess?"

 

That was a bit of an understatement, really: All of Lynch's thick, dark curls had been shorn, his eyes bloodshot and lined in sleep-shadows. He looked like Hell. He looked gorgeous, though Proko would never admit to that.

 

It wasn't Lynch, though, but his friend that spoke, saying in his old Southern money voice, "Kavinsky, now isn't the time."

 

 _Oh, right, **Gansey**_. Proko had never been very fond of Dick Gansey. He was too old for being a teenager. It was a bit creepy.

 

"Didn't ask you, Dick." To Lynch, Kavinsky said, "Cheer up, man. We should all be lucky enough to not have dads."

 

Kavinsky could not _possibly_ have said anything stupider than that, and when Lynch lunged at him, Proko was quick to shove him aside and take the blow in his stead. Lynch's curled fist caught at the edge of his ribcage, but even breathless, Proko kept an arm extended toward Joey in a silent plea: _Keep back_.

 

Proko, naturally, took the second blow, too, and the third, and the forth, as well, a disheartening _crack_ sounding beneath his skin when Lynch's fist impacted just off his left shoulder.

 

Proko was no longer conscious when the fifth came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Jiang. I'm really hoping this didn't turn out one of those stereotypical coming-out scenes. I wanted to downplay it, but not, like, make light of it? Really hoping I did okay. If I didn't, let me know, and I'll do what I can to fix it! I've been struggling with it for weeks, though, and I truly hope I finally got it right! 
> 
> Also, if you look closely, there's also a little reveal for Proko's tattoo. If you didn't catch it, there's a more obvious mention of it in the next chapter
> 
> And Jesus, Proko's got it tough at the end of this chapter. But he'll be okay. It's not the end yet! There are greater horrors ahead, don't you worry!


	13. Chapter 12

"Proko?" His name sounded odd and elegant with that accent, and as his eyes fluttered open, Proko turned his head toward the sound. It hurt more than he expected, and when his eyes squeezed shut, there was the scrape of chair legs on tile, and a soft warning: "Try not to move."

 

It was Skov's voice, Proko was sure of it.

 

"Take these."

 

Gently, Skov pressed something to Proko's lips, following it with a paper cup of water, and swallowing it down, Proko rasped, "What were those?"

 

"Just Vicodin." Settling back into the bedside chair, Skov shrugged. "I had a couple extra anyway. The stuff they give you here is either far too much or nowhere near enough. I'd hazard a guess that it's the latter."

 

Nodding absently, though it sent fire racing up the side of his neck, Proko asked, "Why do you even have those?" Narrowing his sleep-dusty eyes, he added, softer, "Did you steal them?"

 

Skov scoffed, unoffended, replying, "Ballet accident. I twisted my ankle when I was nine, and I've taken them ever since. Don't think I could stop if I wanted to."

 

"You did ballet?"

 

A nostalgic smile, and Skov nodded, "I was damn good at it, too."

 

"So was I." It felt odd, admitting it, and Proko shoved himself up onto his right elbow, grateful when Skov was there to help him sit up a bit straighter. "Don't think I've told anyone about it, though. Not since I came to America."

 

Reclaiming his seat, Skov agreed, "America's a weird place."

 

Carefully lifting his left arm as best he could, Proko attempted to wiggle his fingers. From his elbow down seemed to be fine. Was it his shoulder? He wasn't sure he wanted to know, and instead he turned his attention to Skov, asking, "Where are the others?"

 

"Swan's still doing your paperwork. He's got your phone, as well, I think he called your grandmother." Proko nodded again, wincing a bit. "K was with the dean last I heard. Him and Lynch would be in deep, if it wasn't coming up on a break. They're chalking it up to midterm stress."

 

"And Jiang?"

 

"He's with the dean, too." A wry smile, and Skov added, "When he heard what happened, he marched into the dean's office and gave Lynch an especially pretty black eye."

 

Dropping his head back onto the pillow, Proko let an amused sigh sputter past his lips.

 

"Essentially," Skov agreed. Then his little smile faded, and he asked, "I don't suppose you've spoken to a doctor yet?"

 

Shrugging hurt like Hell, but Proko did it anyway, replying, "Not that I remember."

 

"It's a broken collarbone, among other things." Skov grimaced, pulling one of his piercings into his mouth. It made him look strangely young. "They'll probably put you in a sling before you they send you home."

 

Sarcasm dripping like honey, Proko muttered, " _Oh, joy_."

 

"There's also a few cracked ribs, some cuts and bruises, and a black eye."

 

"I have a black eye?"

 

"You can't feel it?" When Proko shook his head, Skov pulled his phone from the pocket of his uniform trousers, snapping a quick photo before he handed it over. "The medicine took the swelling down, but it's still a bit..." He winced when Proko groaned.

 

"The word you're thinking of," Proko replied as he handed the phone back, disgust clear in his voice, "is _horrific_."

 

" _Horrific_ is a little much." It came on a peal of laughter, rich and deep. "I'd go more with--"

 

"Get out, Skov."

 

Both Skov and Proko glanced to the door at the sound of Kavinsky's voice, though Jiang was the one moving faster, demanding, "You okay, Proko?"

 

Pleased to be at the center of both boys' attention, Proko flushed a bit, murmuring, "Yeah, I'm fine."

 

Instead of expressing any relief, Kavinsky glanced to Jiang, simply saying, "You, too."

 

Though there was no arguing with that tone, Jiang's shark-eyed glare sharpened, hands curling into tight fists at his sides.

 

Kavinsky, alas, was not intimidated. " _Get out_ , Jiang."

 

It wasn't K's snarl, but Skov's hand at his shoulder that had Jiang stepping out, though he kept his dark eyes on Proko all the while.

 

As soon as the door had closed, K turned to Proko, hands fisted at the edge of the mattress when he hissed, " _The fuck_ did you think you were doing?"

 

A painful shrug, and Proko replied, as if it were nothing, "Saving you."

 

" _You're_ the princess here, asshole." There was something almost like worry in K's voice, and Proko flushed a bit. "Princesses _are rescued_ , they don't do the saving themselves."

 

Biting at his lower lip, Proko murmured, "I always pictured myself more a martyr than a princess."

 

" _Fuck, no_." Not bothering with asking permission, K shoved the blankets aside, pushing up the hem of Proko's hospital gown, sliding cold fingertips along the waistband of Proko's boxers. "You still want that tattoo?"

 

Though the question seemed to come out of nowhere, Proko's response was instantaneous: "Of course I do."

 

A smirk, and K pointed out, "Only princesses get crowns. Not gonna give a crown to a fucking _martyr_."

 

Fighting back a smirk, Proko shot back, "You have a crown yourself, Joey. _What does that make you_?"

 

"A king."

 

That smile slipping a bit, Proko asked, "Not my prince charming?"

 

In lieu of a proper answer, K pressed a tiny crown to Proko's skin, a few inches beneath his navel, low enough that not even his lowest-cut jeans would show it without a little tugging.

 

Proko arched his hips into the sting of it.

 

-

 

"Aren't you gonna answer that?"

 

It was not Proko's own phone ringing, as it was still in Swan's possession in the waiting room, but the hospital phone on the rickety bedside table, and Proko shot it a puzzled look. Furrowing his brow, he whispered, "Am I allowed to do that?"

 

Instead of giving a verbal reply, K picked up the phone and shoved it at him.

 

Rolling his eyes despite his wry little smirk, Proko answered, "Hello?"

 

"Ilya?" It had been mere days since he'd last heard that voice. "Oksana called Kalyna. She said you were beaten up badly enough to be in hospital. Are you all right?"

 

"Sergey." Proko did his best to keep the disappointment out of his voice. It was, after all, not Sergey he was upset with. Sergey, he was sure, was well aware of that. "Mother didn't deign to call herself?"

 

There was a pause, a soft sigh, and Sergey simply said, "You know how busy she is, Ilya."

 

Proko gave no reply.

 

"And Yelena was worried about you," Sergey added after a moment, and Proko perked up a bit. At his side, K gave a good-natured roll of his eyes. He'd apparently picked up Yelena's name in the conversation, despite his utter lack of knowledge where the Ukrainian language was concerned. Proko gave him a smile. "Are you in a state to talk to her?"

 

"Only for a minute." It was, unfortunately, the truth. "The pain meds they gave me are pretty strong." The pills K had given him were stronger, though he dared not say that aloud.

 

"Understood."

 

A moment of static, and Yelena's angelic little voice asked, "Ilya?"

 

"It's me, Lena."

 

"Are you okay?" Her words came in rapid-fire Ukrainian, and Proko was thoroughly grateful he'd managed to hold onto the language for the past decade. His shared phone calls with her over the past months had certainly helped. "Grandmama said you got in a fight!"

 

Huffing out a laugh, Proko said, "I'm all right. It's just a few cuts and bruises." What Yelena didn't know couldn't hurt her. "I'm only here because I got knocked out."

 

"But you _are_ okay?"

 

"I am, yeah."

 

"You sound sleepy."

 

"Just a little," Proko agreed, feeling rather guilty. "They just gave me a lot of medicine, is all."

 

"And it's making you sleepy? Only allergy medicine does that to me." Yelena sounded inordinately sad when she suggested, "You should sleep, Ilya. Can I call you back later? You weren't answering your phone earlier, so Papa had to call the hospital instead. Did it break?"

 

Huffing out a laugh, Proko said, "It's with a friend. He's holding it for me until I get out. I'll have it back in a few hours."

 

"Then I'll call you then!"

 

Smothering a smile, Proko replied, "I'll talk to you then, Lena."

 

Before he hung up, a tiny, shy, "I love you," echoed in his ear.

 

He made sure to return it before the line went dead.

 

-

 

"They're really letting you all in here at once?" Proko didn't mind, of course. It was nice, having the boys in the hospital room with him: Swan tucked against his side, Skov in one bedside chair, K in the chair on the opposite side, Jiang settled at the foot of the bed, watching with his dark, dark eyes. "Isn't it meant to be family only?"

 

"We aren't family?"

 

The mock hurt in Swan's voice had Proko fighting back a smile.

 

"Nurses don't get paid enough," Skov added, shrugging his shoulders and smirking a bit, crystal-blue eyes alight with something between mischief and pride. "You'd be surprised what they're willing to do for a little extra cash."

 

Pale eyes rolling, Proko asked, "You bribed the nurses?"

 

"I prob'ly coulda done it with charm alone," Swan said, lips brushing Proko's neck as he spoke, and neither Proko nor Skov bothered to disagree: It was, all knew, entirely true.

 

From the foot of the bed, his hand on Proko's knee, Jiang said, "Y'think we'd leave you here by yourself, man?"

 

Proko simply flashed him a smile.

 

He had expected it, really.

 

Homeschooling had left his immune system rather weak when he was growing up, and with his grandmama being a woman with a career, even in the States, he had often been left to his own devices during hospital stays. He left it unsaid.

 

At the silence, Jiang raised a brow, "Y'sure you're okay?"

 

"Jiang, I'm--"

 

"He already said he was fine, asshole." At Proko's left, arms crossed and resting against the bed, K hooked his chin over Proko's thigh, high enough that Proko was left repressing a shiver. " _Lay off_."

 

Jiang was up and moving in an instant, rounding the bed and hiking one leg up onto the mattress at Kavinsky's side. He met Proko's eyes, leaning in a bit too close, and half-heartedly, Proko breathed, "Jiang, please don't start anything."

 

"Too late."

 

When Jiang leaned in, his lips were chapped and demanding and so, so warm. Proko leaned into it.

 

Swan's little hitched breath didn't go unnoticed, watching from inches way, his head leaned against Proko's uninjured shoulder.

 

Skov looked less than surprised.

 

So, a surprise in and of itself, did Kavinsky, though he was clearly displeased. He lifted a hand to grab at the back of Jiang's uniform sweater, tugging at it a bit more than necessary. "Get off him."

 

Though it was a command, and Jiang abhorred being commanded, he did as he was told just the same, pulling back to meet Proko's eyes, a hand at the center of his chest. "Y'see the kinda shit you're getting into because of him?" It was true, though Proko did nothing to show his agreement. "You're better off with me."

 

"Can you three not..." Skov trailed off, pale brows drawing together, looking a bit relieved when Swan left the bed to curl into his lap. "Can you not be together _as three_? As...?" He glanced down at Swan, in search of the proper word.

 

"A threesome?" Swan supplied. He leaned further into Skov's chest, straddling his hips and nuzzling at the underside of his jaw, watching with amber hawk-eyes when K's hand tightened at the back of Jiang's sweater.

 

" _Fuck, no_." K didn't even need time to think about it, and Jiang glared at him over his shoulder. " _I don't share_."

 

Very softly, surprised to hear the words coming in his own voice, Proko murmured, "I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delayed posting, guys. I just felt like we needed more time with Skov, so I redid the first segment of the chapter. And then I wanted to work Sergey and Yelena in again before the end of the story, and the chapter just ended up being entirely rewritten. Meaning there's a chapter more than I intended. You're welcome :)


	14. Chapter 13

It took another hour for Oksana to arrive at the hospital, bursting into the room and shooing the boys out immediately.

 

From the doorway, Swan called to Proko, "We'll be right out here if you need us!"

 

Proko's reply was lost in the fabric at his grandmama's shoulder when she gingerly hugged him, and when she pulled away, Kavinsky and the boys were gone, the door firmly closed behind them.

 

Looking over Proko's injuries, Oksana crossed her arms over her chest, asking, "What _happened_ , Ilya?"

 

Licking at his lips, Proko murmured, "I don't really remember." It was entirely true. He remembered talking with Swan, and Kavinsky kissing him, and the middle Lynch's eyes blazing with hate, but after that... _Nothing_. "You'd have to ask Joey."

 

Oksana was clearly less than pleased by that suggestion, asking, "Have the doctors spoken to you yet? I know you're a minor, but they should have told you what the damage was, correct?"

 

"Yeah, it's nothing serious." Pushing himself to sit up against the lumpy pillow, mindful of the ache in his shoulder, Proko said, "Fractured collarbone, a few cracked ribs, black eye, busted lip. Nothing that won't heal in a few weeks."

 

" _Ilya_." Oksana sighed, settling in the bedside chair, her chic little purse in her lap. "I know there are a few days more before your break starts, but I'm taking you home now."

 

"I'll be fine, I just--"

 

" _No_."

 

There was no point in arguing, Proko knew, but just the same, he found himself pointing out, "I have a few tests and things to handle before I can leave."

 

"I'm perfectly capable of quizzing you myself." It was a fair point. "We've been at it for years, in case you've forgotten."

 

Rolling pale eyes, Proko muttered, "I haven't forgotten." Then, steeling himself, he added, "I just really don't wanna leave, Grandmama. _I like it here_."

 

Pursing her lips, Oksana deadpanned, " _In the hospital_?"

 

" _In Henrietta_."

 

Raising a drawn-on brow, Oksana said, "I doubt that very much." She ignored her grandson's glare, her pale eyes flitting down to the fading bruises around his neck, then to the brighter one resting in the hollow of his throat. She was rather impressed when he didn't shrink away from her stare. "I think you just like having a lover."

 

" _Lover_?" Proko wrinkled his nose at the word. "Grandmama, I don't have _lovers_."

 

 _Lovers_? Oksana let the plural slip for the time being. "You're obviously letting him fuck you." At Proko's blush, Oksana rolled her eyes. There was that familiar shyness. It was a bit disappointing. "You aren't the dominant type, Ilya, it's plain as day."

 

To that, Proko said nothing.

 

Not bothering to mask her concern, Oksana asked, "It isn't just him, is it?"

 

That brought Proko's voice, soft and shaky: "Of course it is."

 

A scoff, smoke-rough, and Oksana half-hissed, "Don't lie to me, Ilya."

 

-

 

The lie was made more obvious when, some twenty minutes later, Proko was released into the hall, to find the boys waiting.

 

It was not K, but Jiang who was with him first, hands at his waist, meeting pale eyes with dark ones, and asking, "You doing okay?"

 

"I'm all right." Proko shrugged as best he could, trying not to stare at the bruise marring the curve of the other boy's jaw. "Are you--"

 

Jiang was quick to lean in and kiss that question away.

 

Though Proko whimpered into the kiss, he pulled back when he felt K's hand at the back of his neck, rough and calloused and demanding.

 

At his side, clearly unimpressed, Oksana cleared her throat.

 

Nearer to Kavinsky, standing with Swan pressed against his side, Skov glanced at Oksana to ask, "Are you Proko's grandmother, then?"

 

Among so many teenaged boys, Oksana cut a startling, elegant figure. "I am."

 

"Oh!" Naturally, Swan was the most pleased, pulling away from Skov to offer his hand to Oksana, saying, "I'm Lafayette Swan, Proko's roommate. Pleased to meet you, ma'am."

 

Looking a bit surprised, albeit pleasantly so, Oksana shook the proffered hand, replying, "Oksana Rozumovskyi."

 

Smiling, Swan stepped back again, adding, "This is Skov, and that's Jiang," touching each boy's shoulder in turn.

 

Oksana nodded a greeting, saying simply, "Hello."

 

"And I brought this!" _This_ , as it turned out was Swan's duffle bag, and he pulled it over his shoulder, saying, "I wasn't sure if Proko'd have anything to wear out, so..." He shrugged, giving a sheepish smile.

 

"Thank you," Oksana said, taking the bag and turning her attention to Proko, who was still dressed in his hospital-issued scrub top and pants. "Would you like to change before we go?"

 

 _Before we go_ didn't seem to please Kavinsky, and stepping to Proko's side, draping an arm around his hips and holding him close, he said, "We can take him from here."

 

"No." There was no questioning that tone. "I'm taking Ilya home for break. He'll be back once classes start up again."

 

"But what about the party?" Swan asked, and Skov looped an arm about his shoulders.

 

"Ilya is in no state to attend a party."

 

It was, unfortunately, true, and Proko leaned in to brush his lips against Kavinsky's temple.

 

It didn't soothe him in the slightest.

 

Skov was the one to speak up, though, pulling off his sweater and holding it out to Proko, saying, "It's supposed to get cold later."

 

Murmuring a soft, "Thank you," Proko accepted the sweater, pleased to find that there were a few of Kavinsky's wonder pills in the pockets.

 

-

 

It took nearly an hour for Ilya and Oksana to wrap up the hospital paperwork and return to the Aglionby dorms and pack up and head out onto the road.

 

With his good arm on the edge of the open window and Swan's borrowed bag haphazardly tossed in the back seat of Oksana's glorious old Lincoln Continental, Proko sighed, "I could have taken the Golf."

 

"You can't drive with one arm, Ilya."

 

"I do it all the time."

 

Ignoring that and easing the car onto the open highway, Oksana said, "I spoke with Dean Child on my way to the hospital. He said that, according to several students, the blows weren't even meant for you. That you took them for _Joey_." She said his name like a curse.

 

"I did, yeah."

 

"Why?"

 

"He's been hurt more than enough." Pulling his good arm into the car and brushing careful fingers along his swollen shoulder, Proko murmured, "I don't want to see him hurt again, if I can help it."

 

As they passed a minivan, Oksana spared a glance at her grandson, lingering for a moment before she asked, "When were you going to tell me about the tattoo?"

 

It was all Proko could do to keep from blurting out, _Which one_? Fingers trailing up to the tiny letter _K_ inked behind his ear, he said instead, "I was hoping you wouldn't notice it."

 

Oksana scoffed.

 

"It's just a little one."

 

Shaking her head, Oksana hissed, "You let him _brand you_ , Ilya."

 

Smiling to himself, his voice soft enough to be nearly drowned out by the purr of the Continental's engine, Proko agreed, "Yeah, I did."

 

-

 

The rest of the drive back to Spring Lake was quiet, Proko spending the majority of it sleeping off a half-dose of ravenous, dreaming of Kavinsky's calloused hands at his hips, of Jiang's tattooed fingers tugging at his hair, of Swan's pretty lips on his, of Skov watching it all with those blue, blue eyes.

 

He was greatly disappointed when Oksana woke him when they arrived home.

 

As they stepped into the manor, Oksana depositing Swan's pilfered bag along the foyer wall, she said, "Stay down here. I'm going to make us some tea, and we're going to have a very long talk."

 

"Actually," Proko said, kneeling and doing his best to shuffle Swan's bag onto his uninjured shoulder, "can I change first?"

 

Hanging her purse on one of the wall hooks lining the foyer, Oksana glanced over her shoulder, asking, "Do you need help?"

 

"I've got it."

 

Though she looked dubious, Oksana offered no argument.

 

Giving her a tired smile, Proko scaled the stairs and stepped into his bedroom. The familiarity of it was nearly overwhelming, and injuries be damned, Proko flopped back onto the softness of his bed, breathing in the smell of home.

 

Twisting, he dug his right hand into the opposite pocket of his sweats to fish out his phone.

 

Given he was right-handed, it would have made more sense for his phone to be in the corresponding pocket, but his right pocket was, in fact, reserved: Only his keys and a spare pack of Kavinsky's preferred cigarettes nested there.

 

When he finally managed to fumble his phone free, he plugged in Kavinsky's number, pleased when the line was picked up by the second ring.

 

"Proko?"

 

"It's me. I just wanted to tell you Grandmama and I got home okay."

 

"Okay, good."

 

The relief in Kavinsky's voice was obviously superficial, and Proko asked, "Is something wrong?"

 

"Swan's losing his goddamn mind trailing Jiang everywhere, trying to stop another fight." Though Proko couldn't see it, he was fairly certain K was shrugging. "He's worried as Hell."

 

"I told Jiang not to--"

 

A scoff, and Kavinsky pointed out, "You ever known Jiang to listen to anyone?"

 

"He listens to me."

 

"You're not here." When Proko gave no reply, Kavinsky added, "He's a stubborn fuck. It's 'bout the only thing I like about him."

 

"Don't be a dick."

 

There was a rustling, as if Kavinsky was shrugging again, and he said, "Can't help it."

 

"Kind of wish you could." It sounded remarkably half-hearted. "Kind of hurts that you can't."

 

"Thought you liked getting hurt?" Kavinsky sounded genuinely puzzled.

 

"There's a line. Getting roughed up is one thing, getting my collarbone broken and several ribs cracked is another."

 

"Fair enough."

 

Wetting his lips, his voice going soft, Proko admitted, "Getting tattooed is nice, though."

 

"You like it?"

 

Holding the phone between his ear and his uninjured shoulder, Proko reached down to slide his fingertips against the fresh ink hidden just beneath the hem of his scrub pants, murmuring, "It's gorgeous." It was: A scaled down, more feminine version of the crown on Kavinsky's chest. It was more a tiara than a proper crown, Proko knew, but he loved it just the same. Then he took hold of the phone again, and, already knowing well of Swan and Jiang, he asked, "How's Skov?"

 

"Chill as fuck."

 

Proko surprised himself with a little huff of laughter, shooting back, "Isn't he always?"

 

"Pretty much."

 

"Just thank him for the pills, okay? I'd do it myself, but I don't have his number."

 

"Sure."

 

Though Proko could listen to just Kavinsky's breathing for hours, he eventually sighed, saying, "I should probably go. Grandmama and I apparently need to have a _very long talk_."

 

"She saw the tattoo, I guess?" There was laughter in Kavinsky's voice.

 

"Just the little one, but she's not happy about it."

 

"'Course she's not." Kavinsky, on the other hand, sounded _thoroughly_ happy about it. "She's not _s'posed_ to be. You did it _for you_. A li'l rebellion is good for the teenage soul."

 

"Thanks, Dr. Phil."

 

"Fuck you."

 

It came on a huff of laughter, and Proko mirrored it, agreeing, "When I get back." Then his smile faded a bit, and he added, "I'll call you later, okay?"

 

"Yeah, don't leave me in the dark."

 

"Yeah." There was a long pause before Proko asked, his voice soft, "And Joey?"

 

"Yeah?" Another pause, this one heavier, and Kavinsky scoffed, "Don't pussy out on me, man. What were you gonna say?"

 

Proko's next words came on a sigh: "I love you."

 

Taking a pause of his own, K eventually replied, "Don't be a pussy."

 

"I think," Proko murmured, feeling oddly bold, "a pussy would've kept it hidden."

 

Clicking his tongue, Kavinsky asked, "How long you been _keeping it hidden_ , babe?"

 

He sounded more intrigued than disgusted, and Proko took immense comfort in that, admitting, "A while, I guess." That was an understatement. "I don't think I really knew what it was, though."

 

"Whadid you think it was?"

 

Rolling his eyes, Proko replied, " _I didn't know_ , genius. It just felt like fireworks. Like something glowing in my chest whenever I thought of you."

 

"That's cheesy as fuck." There was smug laughter in K's voice, and Proko found himself smiling, too. "No wonder you didn't say anything."

 

"I didn't wanna hide it anymore, though." Proko's smile faded, and he bit down on his lower lip, wishing it was K's teeth sinking in and not his own. "It's cowardly, and I don't really feel like a coward anymore."

 

A little huff, and K agreed, softly, "Brave boy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you guys know that breaking your collarbone can cause the affected shoulder to slump, even after it's healed? A broken collarbone can thus cause the uneven shoulder thing Stief mentioned in TDT!
> 
> Also, Proko is getting a bit bolder as the story goes. I find it rather admirable. K's very proud of him. Jiang's increasing boldness in regard to Proko, though, is far less than admirable
> 
> And with the addition of the chapter 12, there are three chapters yet to go! I don't want this fic to end, and I'm trying to figure out if a sequel fic would be possible


	15. Chapter 14

When Proko stepped into the dining room a bit later, sparklers still shining in his chest, Oksana leveled him with a troubled look, asking, "I thought you wanted to change?"

 

"I did."

 

Oksana's Botox-smooth brow crinkled just the slightest bit, and Proko glanced down at himself to find that he'd forgotten to change, still wearing the sweats and tank Swan had brought to the hospital for him. Skov's Aglionby sweater was still draped around his shoulders, though he'd at least had the presence of mind to set the pills he'd been given aside. Pulling the sweater tighter around himself, Proko admitted, "I got sidetracked."

 

Opening the glassy doors of the china cabinet, Oksana asked, "By Joey?"

 

"It's a long drive," was Proko's defense, and he settled into one of the chairs at the long dining table, leaving the spot at its head open, a sign of respect. "I wanted to let him and the boys know I made it back okay."

 

Though Oksana raised a drawn-on eyebrow as she faced him, a pair of china cups and saucers in hand, she did not contest it. Instead, she asked, "What is he to you, Ilya, that you would allow him to brand you?"

 

"I think you already know."  
  


Oksana didn't deny that, instead saying, "I need to hear it from you."

 

Steeling himself, eyes on his grandmama's, oddly bold, Proko said, "He's my boyfriend."

 

A sigh, and Oksana muttered, "I was afraid of that."

 

"He's not as bad as you seem to think he is."

 

"He is a _Kavinsky_ , Ilya." Carefully, she placed a cup and saucer before him. "I've lived beside Kavinskys for years, and I've seen the way they go." Proko quietly noted the fact that she refused to look at him as she said it. "Martin Kavinsky is _a beast_. His wife is a drunk, his father was a monster, and his son--"

 

" _Is troubled_." Proko was surprised at how sharp his voice sounded. K would have approved. "He just needs a little help." Watching as his grandmama poured him a cup of tea from a lovely antique kettle, Proko said, " _I love him_ , Grandmama." He was hyperaware of the way her hand twitched when he said it. "He's nothing like his parents. He's smart, and he's funny, and he's more sensitive than he'd ever let on. He can be a little reckless, and he has a temper, but he isn't _a bad person_."

 

Sighing again and pouring her own cup of tea, Oksana admitted, "You do sound quite thoroughly love-struck."

 

"I am." And he took a sip of his tea. Like Oksana, he took it without cream or sugar. He had a weak spot for bitter things. He wondered, briefly, if that was why he was so found of Kavinsky.

 

Resting her elbow on the table, Oksana pressed mauve-painted nails to her temple. "This is partially my fault," she said, her voice weary. "Had I let you attend proper school..."

 

She trailed off, and Proko pointed out, "I would have been bullied. I wouldn't have lasted a week without needing intensive therapy."

 

A wry smile, and Oksana agreed, "That's probably true." Then she reached out to place her hand over his on the table, squeezing gently. "I'm not going to forbid you from seeing him," she said. "I know that would mean seeing you even less, but _please_ , Ilya, _be careful_. I know your naïveté is partly because of me, but I don't want to see you hurt."

 

Flipping their hands to lock their fingers, Proko said, rather sheepishly, "I don't mind--"

 

"I know you don't." Oksana was entirely unfazed by the brilliant flush lighting up her grandson's cheeks. "Mykhayl was the same way." Glancing up to catch Proko's eyes with her own, his the exact same frosty near-white as hers, she said, "I don't want you to end up like him."

 

-

 

"You're really not gonna come to the party?" Swan sounded absolutely _devastated_ , and in the background, Proko could hear the other boys chorus their sullen agreement. It really was a wonder they'd waited to make the call until the evening.

 

Biting back a smile, lying back on his bed, his phone held to his ear by his good shoulder, Proko admitted, "I'm not really fit for a party, Swan."

 

"But you just gotta be there!"

 

From somewhere in the background, Skov could be heard saying, "He's hurt, Swan. Ease up."

 

Swan was unperturbed, stubborn thing he was, saying, "Just come back for the night. I could even come pick you up, if you like! Please?"

 

"Swan--"

 

"I'll let you fuck me."

 

That one stunned Proko to silence for a few seconds, cheeks flushing before he thought back, parroting Swan's own words back at him: "I'm not much of a top."

 

Sighing, Swan murmured, "Had to give it a shot."

 

A crackle of static, and Jiang's voice came over the line, saying, "It's not for another week, y'know. You could be feeling better by then."

 

"As long as I'm in the sling, Grandmama isn't gonna--"

 

Proko was cut off by a great rustling, and when it settled, Kavinsky's voice said, low and soft, "You gotta come, babe. Won't be right without you."

 

His cheeks warming, Proko said, "You know how she gets--"

 

" _Think about the fireworks_."

 

They were glowing in him at that very moment. Biting at his lower lip to hide a smile from no one in particular, Proko said, "That's low, even for you."

 

"But you're still gonna come, aren'cha?"

 

Kavinsky sounded nothing less than _impossibly_ smug, and Proko sighed. The only defense he could manage was, "I'll see what Grandmama says."

 

-

_Come to dinner_ , was what his grandmama said, Proko discovered once he hung up the phone. _I made pierogi._

 

 _At least it had only been in his inbox a few minutes_ , he thought as he made his way downstairs.

 

He found Oksana in the dining room, setting out plates of steaming pierogi and glasses of milk and silver flatware.

 

Smiling as he claimed his seat, Proko asked, "Since when do you text?"

 

"Since you became disobedient enough that you don't come when I call for you."

 

The smile fell away from Proko's face at that, and he said, sounding sheepish, "I'm sorry. I must not have heard you. I was talking to--"

 

" _The boys_?" It sounded ridiculous, coming from Oksana, though her imitation of her grandson's mostly-Americanized accent was surprisingly good. Proko found himself wondering for a moment if she was simply _pretending_ that she couldn't grasp the American accent. "That's what I thought."

 

"They really want me at that party."

 

Shaking her head as she claimed her own seat, Oksana said, "You're in no condition for such things."

 

"This is really important, Grandmama, _please_." It was only half an exaggeration. "We've been planning it forever!"

 

" _Forever_?" It came on a scoff.

 

Rolling his eyes, Proko admitted, "Two weeks."

 

Just the same, Oksana seemed impressed, raising her drawn-on eyebrows and asking, "That long?"

 

Slicing one pierogi in half as best he could with only the use of his right hand, Proko nodded, "Yes."

 

"But you would plan it two days into your break?"

 

"We did that on purpose." Popping half a pierogi into his mouth, Proko added, "It's going to be huge, especially considering we're still only sophomores. We've got at least thirty guys coming even though it's during break, and there are a bunch of townie girls, too, and even a few kids from other towns."

 

"It sounds quite exciting," Oksana murmured.

 

"Exactly!"

 

Sipping at her milk, Oksana agreed, " _Exactly_. You're in no condition for--"

 

" _I'll be fine_." It came out surprisingly fierce, and a shameful flush crept up Proko's neck. More gently, he said, "I'm sixteen years old, Grandmama. I can make my own decisions."

 

" _Are_ you making your own decisions?" When Proko opened his mouth to reply, Oksana cut him off with a sharp, "Or is _he_ making them for you?"

 

-

 

Proko hadn't realized how much he missed taking tests under his grandmama's supervision.

 

He did miss, though, the feeling of Swan and Kavinsky leaning against his shoulders to copy his answers.

 

A time or two, when he was alone, he pressed a hand to his injured shoulder, hoping the pain would set off the same odd sparkle as having K pressed against him.

 

It wasn't the same.

 

-

 

It took three days before Oksana settled at Proko's side on his bed, softly saying, "You look lonely."

 

"I am."

 

Folding her hands in her lap, legs crossed at the ankle, Oksana murmured, "I'm a bit disappointed you miss him so much."

 

"It's not just _him_ , Grandmama." It was mostly true. "I miss all of them."

 

"Even the Asian boy?" There was just the slightest bit of amusement in Oksana's smoky voice, and Proko shot her a vaguely disdainful look. "He seemed ready to fight me if it would have kept you there."

 

"Jiang's just a little possessive."

 

"You say that like it's a good thing." When Proko said nothing, Oksana sighed. "You're interested in him as well, aren't you?"

 

Still, Proko said nothing.

 

Pinching the bridge of her nose between French-tipped fingers, Oksana muttered, "Have I ever told you you have terrible taste in men?"

 

-

 

Though Proko received myriad texts over the next few days, the only call that came was from Jiang, the afternoon of the party, saying simply, "We got trouble."

 

Scoffing lightly, Proko asked, "Don't we always?"

 

"I'm being serious." The ferocity in Jiang's voice was a bit jarring: He rarely spoke to Proko in such a way. Proko liked it more than he was willing to admit. "You know the Lynchs' old man was in the magical artifacts business, yeah?"

 

"Yes. It's what got him killed, wasn't it?"

 

"More or less. Declan's taken over since he died, and Declan told me that Cheng told Seondeok that K's been dreaming, and it's all a big goddamn mess."

 

Furrowing his brow, Proko asked, " _Seondeok_?"

 

" _Cheng's mother_. She deals, too." There was a damp sound, as if Jiang was wetting his lips, and he added, "She's been known to do business with Martin Kavinsky."

 

A beat, and Proko breathed, "He knows where Joey is."

 

"That's what we're afraid of, yeah."

 

Sitting up in bed, Proko carefully asked, "You're the one who told Cheng about him, though, aren't you?"

 

"I didn't think he would tell Seondeok about it."

 

Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, Proko said, "You specifically told him that _his mother would be interested in the pills_."

 

"I didn't think she--"

 

"That's the problem, isn't it?" Proko was a bit shocked by the ice in his voice, though he did nothing to take it back. K would have been proud. " _You didn't think_. I swear, all you _think about_ anymore is how jealous--"

 

" _I didn't mean for this to happen_ , _Proko_." It was odd to hear Jiang sounding so raw. "Just 'cause I'm jealous doesn't mean _I want him dead_. If I wanted him dead, I wouldn't have called to tell you about this. _I wouldn't be warning you right now_."

 

It was a fair point, and Proko sighed, reluctantly, "I suppose not."

 

A scoff, and Jiang admitted, "I know losing him would hurt you." He sounded as though the very mention of such things made him sick. "You think I want that?" He didn't wait for a reply. "You live near the Kavinskys, yeah? Can you see the house right now?"

 

Climbing to his feet, Proko stepped over to his bedroom window, pulling the curtain aside to eye Martin Kavinsky's slick Maserati GranTurismo, its shiny black paint catching the sun as it sat idle in the driveway. "He's here, now, at least."

 

"Can't imagine he'll be there for long."

 

There was a challenge in Jiang's voice, clear as day. "And what do you propose I do about it?"

 

"Keep him occupied."

 

"Are you completely mad?" Sliding the curtain shut and resting his back against the wall, Proko said under his breath, "Do you have any idea what he'd do to me if he caught me at it?"

 

A scoff, and Jiang shot back, "Do you have any idea what he'll do to K if he finds him?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I ever mentioned how much I love writing Oksana? I mean, pretty much every major character in this fic aside from K is more or less an OC, but I like Oksana a lot. And Swan. And Jiang, who is my absolute favorite
> 
> He will, I think, be the focus of the sequel fic


	16. Chapter 15

_This was madness_. Idiocy and stupidity and _sheer **madness**_.

 

Joey would have been proud.

 

Sneaking past his grandmama and swiping the keys to the Continental had been surprisingly easy: Oksana was thoroughly engrossed in some news story about falling stocks and rising gas prices and how they played into each other.

 

Getting the massive oak doors at the front of the house to close quietly was more difficult with his current injuries, though Proko managed to slip out without incident, clicking it closed behind him.

 

Outside in the gleaming midmorning sun, Proko crossed the street as discreetly as he could manage, sidling up behind Martin Kavinsky's gorgeous Maserati, doing his best to keep out of sight, though the flutter of velvet drapery was incredibly unsettling.

 

Kneeling at the car's back end, Proko reached into the pocket of his jeans with his good hand, handily inserting a large, ugly potato into the tailpipe.

 

**_This was madness._ **

 

-

 

Proko had been on the road in his grandmama's stolen car for nearly an hour when his phone began irritably buzzing in the cup holder.

 

His good hand tightening around the steering wheel, he promptly ignored it.

 

He _needed_ to do this.

 

He could not allow his grandmama to stop him.

 

Joey had _saved him_ , from loneliness and monotony and that sense that there really was nothing in the world worth knowing.

 

Joey had flung him out of his comfort zone and into the real world.

 

 _Joey had saved him_.

 

Now it was his chance to return the favor.

 

-

 

 _On my terms_ , Proko told himself as he grabbed for the phone when it began buzzing again some forty-five minutes later.

 

He was far enough, at least, that Oksana couldn't catch him before he'd made it to Henrietta.

 

Using his left hand to grasp the steering wheel, wincing when the fractured bits of his collarbone pressed together, he used his right hand to grab the phone, answering with a timid, "Hello?"

 

"Ilya." Oksana's voice was perfectly even, and Proko bit at his lip. "Where is my car?"

 

"Which one?" It was a fair question, at least: Oksana had a rather extensive collection. The '77 Lincoln Continental Town Car was simply her favorite of the lot. It was also the only one who's keys weren't hiding in the garage.

 

" _Ilya_."

 

Catching his own gaze in the rearview mirror, Proko replied, surprised at his boldness, "I have it."

 

Oksana was, of course, not surprised, asking, " _Where_ do you have it?"

 

Softly, his voice nearly drowned out by the Continental's engine, Proko admitted, "On the road."

 

"To Henrietta?"

 

Biting at his lip again, tasting blood from the split Lynch had left there a few days past, Proko said, "It's not just about the party, Grandmama."

 

He could practically _hear_ her eyes roll. "Isn't it?"

 

" _No, it isn't_." It was odd to feel so thoroughly determined, and Proko let the feeling bleed into his voice. "Word's been going around among the magical artifact dealers, and Martin Kavinsky knows where Joey is now."

 

Sounding oddly resigned, Oksana said, half a sigh, "He's his _father_ , Ilya."

 

Switching lanes and accelerating, Proko asked, "Do you remember the night he snuck in?"

 

There was a strangely suspicious pause before Oksana replied, "Yes."

 

Doing his best to ward off the memory of that night, of the hate in K's eyes and the desperation in his voice, Proko asked, "Do you remember the bruise he had on his cheek?"

 

Shakier, Oksana replied, "Yes."

 

" _Martin Kavinsky_ did that to him, Grandmama." The disgust in Proko's voice was obvious, and he struggled to keep himself from standing on the accelerator. " _His own father_ did that to him."

 

Another pause, and Oksana said, her voice strangely even, "It's been going on for years, Ilya. I tried to shelter you from it, but--"

 

" _Years_?"

 

The rustle of a nod, and Oksana said, "Yes."

 

"You _knew_ ," Proko demanded, " ** _for years_** , and you did _nothing_?"

 

"What Martin Kavinsky does with his own son is none of my business."

 

Pulling to a reluctant stop at a traffic light, Proko said, "Well, it's _my_ business."

 

"Ilya--"

 

"I love him, you know." The light went green again, and Proko sped off. " _I love him_." When Oksana said nothing, Proko continued, "You're always telling me to stand up for myself, but I've never really had any reason to. But I want to stand up _for him_."

 

Still, Oksana said nothing.

 

Desperate to fill the silence, Proko softly said, "I know rebellion is good for the teenage soul, but I could really use your blessing on this."

 

There was a long pause, then a longer exhale, and Proko could almost smell cigar smoke through the phone. Then Oksana said, "Good luck." _Don't turn out like your father_ , she didn't say, though Proko heard it all the same.

 

He didn't think it could be avoided, and so he simply murmured, "Thank you," and hung up.

 

-

 

Turning out like Mykhayl wasn't so bad, the way Ilya saw it.

 

It was noble, wasn't it, to die in place of the one you loved?

 

-

 

The sun was nearly behind the trees by the time Proko arrived back in Henrietta, the Continental's tires sliding a bit in the dirt along the entryway to the old fairgrounds.

 

The boys were gathered near the remains of the ticket booth, K doling out orders to Skov, Jiang talking with someone on his cellphone, Swan watching it all from where he sat on the hood of his car, the same model as Proko's, though Swan's was a few years older.

 

It was Swan, naturally, who noticed Proko's appearance first, jumping to his feet and chirping, "You're back!"

 

"For the moment," Proko agreed, though it faded off into laughter when Swan pounced into his arms like a love-starved kitten.

 

"Isn't that your grandma's car?" Kavinsky sounded impressed.

 

Pressing his lips together to hide his exhilarated little smile, Proko eventually admitted, "I stole it, yeah."

 

"You _stole it_?" Though Swan was clearly flabbergasted, he was also clearly amused.

 

His voice lost to laughter, Skov asked, "You stole your grandma's car? We really must be a horrible influence on you."

 

Smiling, Proko said, "I think it's mostly K and Jiang," and Kavinsky tossed an arm around his shoulders. It hurt, but Proko couldn't bring himself to pull away, instead leaning in to press his lips to K's hair. To Jiang, he mouthed a silent, _Thank you_.

 

Jiang didn't look entirely pleased.

 

Ignoring all else, as he was wont to do, Kavinsky murmured to Proko, "Glad you came, babe. Wouldn't be right without you."

 

Biting at his lip for a moment, Proko eventually said, soft and shamed, "I'm not here for the party."

 

Furrowing his brow, Kavinsky looked up to catch Proko's eyes, asking, "Then why'd you bother to come back?"

 

"Didn't Jiang tell you?"

 

"'Bout the _old man_?" K sneered the last two words. "Yeah. Don't really give a shit, though."

 

The bolt of worry that struck Proko's chest at that nearly sent him reeling. "Joey--"

 

"You got any idea how many times I've run away from him, Proko?"

 

Proko simply shook his head. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to hear this story, though he doubted he could stop K from telling it. Once he got on a roll, there was no stopping Joseph Kavinsky. It was at once admirable and annoying.

 

"Me neither." K said it as if it were nothing, shrugging his narrow shoulders. "I stopped counting after the thirteenth time. Thought it was a lucky number, maybe he'd leave me alone." He gave a snort, unflattering and derisive. " _No such luck_."

 

Again, Proko sighed, "Joey..."

 

Catching Proko's eyes with his own, coffee-brown on ice-blue, K snarled, "I'm sick of running from him, man. I like it here, so _fuck him_. I'm not going back."

 

"Joey, _he could **kill you**_."

 

"He's done a lot worse than that already." Proko felt his throat go tight. "There's nothing he _hasn't_ already done." Then, K turned his attention to Jiang, saying, "Make sure Cheng and his boys are coming." Then to Swan, he said, "Townie girls." Smirking, to Skov, he said, "Everyone else."

 

-

 

The falling sun cast shadows across Joseph Kavinsky's hollow cheeks, his hair a deep, bloody red, eyes black as sin. He looked beautiful, though Proko dared not say so.

 

From his place on Continental's hood, Kavinsky beckoned Proko to do the same, saying, "Surprised you're okay with this."

 

Sitting close enough to press his thigh to K's, Proko admitted, "Honestly, I'm not." It was an understatement. "He's hurt you before, what makes you think he won't do it again?"

 

" _He's a coward_." The words came with a careless shrug. "Maybe he'll pussy out 'cause there'll be people around this time."

 

"Maybe."

 

Glancing up a bit, Kavinsky said, "You're sounding kinda spacey there, Proko."

 

"I'm just..." Proko sighed, looking away before Kavinsky could catch sight of his traitorous, hesitant smile.

 

"You're just _what_?" Kavinsky's smirk was dazzling, catching light from the falling sun. "Happy to see me?"

 

"That, too," Proko said, "but this is really just..." He trailed off again.

 

"Proko, _just say it_."

 

Letting out a little huff, Proko said, "It's really brave."

 

Scoffing, K turned farther towards Proko, feet on the bumper, legs spread, elbows on his knees. His smirk widening, K said, "Keep talking."

 

Though Proko's eyes rolled, he continued, saying, "I'm really proud of you, Joey."

 

"You're such a sap." Kavinsky didn't sound at all displeased.

 

"But you love me," Proko countered.

 

A pause, another scoff, and Kavinsky said, very softly, "Starting to think I do, yeah."

 

-

 

Cheng and his boys did come.

 

The townie girls did come.

 

Proko was mostly sure, in fact, that _everyone_ had come.

 

It was greatly disconcerting, though, to see that Martin Kavinsky had come, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, next chapter, big things. _A big thing. **The big thing.**_
> 
> Consider yourselves warned.


	17. Chapter 16

"You would choose to waste your talents on _this_?" 

Despite the music and the raging car-fueled bonfires and the chatter of excited high-schoolers scattered about the field, Martin Kavinsky's voice seemed to echo off the sky itself.

Proko pressed himself tighter to K's side. 

While the other boys seemed drawn to that voice, K shrank back from it. His head angled downwards, he watched his father warily. 

From somewhere to the right, blanketed by the Europop blasting from the speakers of his RX-7, Skov approached. Wordlessly, he placed himself between Martin and Swan, who watched with wide, worried eyes from the car's hood.

Jiang was less cautious, abandoning a shame-faced Henry Cheng to stand beside Proko. It had been decided, without a word passing between him that he and K were to shield Proko from Martin's line of sight. As short as he and K both were, though, it was a rather futile effort.

Proko was immensely for it grateful all the same.

K was nowhere near as relieved. His eyes fixed on his father, he said, "Jiang." There was a strained edge to his voice. "Move everyone deeper into the field." 

It was a command Jiang failed to follow. 

K's eyes cut to his other side. "Skov. Take Proko and Swan and get 'em outta here."

"I'm not leaving." Proko's voice was too soft to be heard over the noise from the party. He was glad, at least, that the tremble in his hands and his shoulders and his knees was inaudible.

"Proko." 

Though Proko spared a glance down at Jiang, stubborn and apologetic, he didn't budge.

Skov, too, seemed hesitant. He locked eyes first with Jiang, then Proko, and finally K.

"Who are you?" Martin Kavinsky's voice was far too similar to his son's. Proko shrank farther into K's side, reaching down to tangle their fingers together. K responded with the tiniest of squeezes.

Jiang was the one to speak up, hissing, "We're his friends."

When Martin's eyes fell on Jiang, K breathed a warning, a quiet, "Jiang." 

Jiang, naturally, ignored it. "Who're _youJiang_." Jiang raised an eyebrow at the desperation seeping into K’s voice. Proko felt unnerved by it, and Skov looked as if he felt the same. Still perched on the RX-7's hood, Swan trembled, narrow shoulders curled in on himself. "You need to go, now."

Looking only the slightest bit resigned, Jiang snapped, "You let Proko get hurt--"

" _Just go_ ," K hissed.

This time, Jiang and Skov both followed the order. They headed in opposite directions, herding the crowd of partygoers farther into the field as they went. Swan left the RX-7 to follow, bright eyes nervous even as he was pulled protectively against Skov's side.

As the crowd moved away, Martin Kavinsky asked, "Who are they?"

K wouldn't meet his father's eyes. "Friends."

"You don't have friends, Joseph." 

A muscle twitching in his jaw, K half-snapped, "I have--"

" _Don't talk back._ " Martin's eyes, a cold, flinty gray, flitted to Proko. "And you?"

Stepping between Martin and K, though K shot him a disapproving look for it, Proko said, "My name is Ilya Prokopenko."

Something like interest flashed across Martin's face. He tilted his head a bit, asking, "Rozumovskyi's grandson?"

Biting at his lip for a moment, Proko nodded. "Yes, sir."

" _Sir_? Very respectful." A smirk, and Martin's eyes returned to his son. "He's too good for you, wouldn't you say?"

"He's _mine_." There was real fear in K's voice now. He tugged at Proko's hand, trying in vain to pull him back, to shield him. Proko, stubborn thing that he was, refused to be moved. " _You can't have him_."

"Is that so?"

"It is." With the party farther away, the music and the laughter muted by the distance, the quiver in Proko's voice was painfully obvious. 

The skin around Martin's eyes tightened a bit, eyes trailing from Proko's colorless eyes to his cast-encased left arm to his expensive sneakers and back again before he asked, "Are you the reason he left?"

Just as Proko opened his mouth to reply, K cut him off, snarling, "I left on my own."

"Really?" There was no trace of intonation in Martin's voice. "Because I spoke to Elisaveta on my way here, and she tells me you were following ." Martin lifted a hand to his chest, murmuring just loudly enough to be heard over the faded din of the party, "I think I still have some of her blood under my nails." He wiped his hand on the lapel of his expensive suit. K's eyes tracked every movement. "Disgusting." Martin glanced up again, snagging his son's eyes with his own. "You _are_ coming home, Joseph."

"Joey--"

K cut Proko off again with a squeeze of their joined hands. "I'm not."

"Oh?"

This time, it was Proko who cut K off, saying, "Hasn't he been through enough?" Martin raised a brow at him, and K flinched. "You're _his father_! How can you treat him like this?"

A smirk, and Martin replied, "Because a son is easier to--"

"Control than a wife," Proko heard himself say, his voice coming out higher and gentler and infinitely warmer than Martin's.

Martin seemed rather amused by that, asking, "What _has_ he been telling you?"

Sparing K a brief glance, Proko said, "It was a guess."

"Clever boy." Martin's smile fell. He parted his jacket to slide his hands into the pockets of his trousers, K watching all the while, still pressed too-close to Proko's side. "Leave."

"No."

"Proko." It was a plea, not a command, and that was nearly enough to push Proko away. He'd never heard K's voice like this. It was, quite possibly, the most unnerving thing he'd ever heard. " _Go_."

Not looking away from Martin Kavinsky's steely eyes, Proko shook his head. " _I'm not leaving_."

He never even saw it, it happened so quickly:  
A flash of silver, a burst of pain in his already injured shoulder, and Proko dropped to his knees on the dry grass.

K, uninjured, followed.

Unmoved by the display, Martin held a gun up, the metal catching firelight from a car burning nearby. "Do you recognize this, Joseph?"

Proko's stomach twisted. The last time he'd seen that gun, it had been hidden beneath his pillow, all the way back in Spring Lake. Despite the pain in his pistol-whipped shoulder and his shattered collarbone, Proko managed to grit out, "Where did you get that?" 

"I believe you already know."

"If you hurt--"

"Proko!" K had a hand at Proko's nape instantly, squeezing just enough to hurt, fingertips brushing the brand behind Proko's ear. A touch like that would normally have been enough to have Proko melting, but now it felt wrong, as if K was struggling to control even just this aspect of the situation. He was failing, and they both knew it. " _Enough_."

Ignoring the pain in his body and in K's voice, Proko got to his feet, again planting himself between K and Martin. Stronger than he had ever heard himself, he said again, " _ **I'm not leaving**_."

"Very brave, isn't he?" Martin Kavinsky raised the silvery gun again, pressing night-cooled metal to Proko's chest. "This heart is Joseph's, isn't it?"

Shakily, Proko agreed, "It is."

"Ilya--"

Again, lip curled, Martin hissed, "Disgusting."

The sound of that word was drowned out by a gunshot, echoing off the trees and the cars and the stars themselves.

Proko watched them spin off into darkness as he fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, dears, I just couldn't get everything feeling right :P Many thanks to [Diglossia](http://di-glossia.tumblr.com/) for helping me out! <3
> 
> There's only the epilogue left after this, then Dreamers is complete!


	18. Epilogue

"Jiang?" Proko's voice was rough and scratchy, catching in his throat. "Where's K?"

In lieu of a proper answer, Jiang simply stared, his dark, dark eyes narrowed in something between confusion and concern. Softly, he asked, "Proko?"

Perhaps he just hadn't heard the question. Proko mentally shrugged it off, pushing himself to sit upright on the sofa, glancing around the Kavinsky mansion's dark, empty living room. There was no way it was still night. The sun had been rising when he'd spoken to Martin Kavinsky. There was also no way his pistol-whipped shoulder shouldn't have been sore. Even pressing a hand directly to his shattered collarbone brought no pain. Brow furrowed, glancing to where Jiang sat on the arm of the sofa, Proko asked, "Why doesn't it hurt?"

Taking a long drink from a flask suspiciously engraved with the letters _DL_ , Jiang shot back, "Why don't you have a hole in your chest?"

The hand at Proko's collarbone slid down to rest over his breastbone, pressing hard and finding nothing but his own skin beneath the fabric of his soft, worn t-shirt. Again, more urgently, he asked, " _Where's K_?"

"Basement." Jiang's eyes wandered as he spoke. "With Swan and Skov."

Standing on shaky legs, Proko headed toward the door beneath the curving staircase that led upstairs.

To his surprise, Jiang followed. "Swan's scared out of his mind for you," he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

"Why?"

Jiang ignored him, adding, "And Skov's just sorta gone numb to it all."

Turning to glance at Jiang as they walked, Proko asked, "To _what all_?"

Jiang stopped, lips parting, brows drawing together. Very softly, he asked, "You haven't realized it yet?"

Though Proko opened his mouth to reply, he sighed instead, pushing open the door that led to the basement stairs. "K?" he called.

"Proko?" It was Swan's voice, soft and strangely timid. "Is it really you this time?"

Stepping carefully down the stairs on his jelly legs, Proko asked, "Who else would I be?"

"He got the sass right, at least," Skov said from one of the back rows of cinema seats. 

Swan was curled into his lap, looking incredibly small and incredibly cautious, half hiding his face against Skov's neck. It didn't suit him.

Colorless eyes roving until they found K in the first of the ten-odd rows of theater seats, Proko asked, "What happened?"

"A lot," came K's smoke-ravaged voice. "The old man's dead, for one." He waved a hand in a careless gesture that would have been far more fitting coming from Swan, not bothering to look over his shoulder and look Proko in the eye. "Dead, and back in Jersey running _the business_."

Striding down the aisle between the seats to stand at K's side, Proko asked again, "Joey, _what happened_?"

Meeting Proko's eyes with his own, hooded and darker than ever, one swollen and blackened, K shot back, "What do you think?"

Proko had no intention of voicing exactly what he thought had happened. It was too much to bear, and instead he asked, "What happened to your eye?" 

The bruise was clearly days old, though K had not had it before Proko had felt that familiar gun presd against his skin.

"Did your father...?"

K scowled, teeth bared when he replied, "Ask Jiang."

Dutifully, Proko's eyes drifted to the top of the stairs, where Jiang was leaning against the door.

"He deserved it." There was a startling rawness to his voice that had Proko's heart aching in his chest. "He shouldn't have let the old man kill you."

Proko's hands shook at his sides. "That's not possible," was the best reply he could muster, the words catching in his throat. "If I had died..."

" _You did_." Despite his meager size, K was stunningly intimidating. Proko shivered. "I brought you back."

"K." It took everything Proko had to keep his voice from breaking. " _That's not possible._ "

"You know what I can do, don'cha?" The arrogance in K's voice was _unbearable_. Proko _adored_ it. "You can't be all that surprised."

Half-heartedly, Proko argued, "An _entire **person**_ \--"

"Is easier to forge than you'd think." K stood, standing chest-to-chest with Proko, staring up at him with those infinitely dark eyes. "Took me a couple tries, but you look perfect." His gaze drifted downward, snagging on Proko's crooked shoulders, his waist, his hips. Then he smiled, pleased with his work, and murmured, "An exact replica."

"I'm not--"

" _You are._ " There was no arguing with that tone. " _You're **perfect**._ "

Proko flushed, eyes dropping demurely to the thick carpet beneath his sneakers.

"See? The real Proko woulda done the same thing." Reaching out, K wrapped his hand around Proko's throat, thumb pressing into the hollow between his collarbones just enough to get Proko to look at him. "I could make a million more of you, man."

It hurt more than it should have.

"I could make _an entire world_ , and fill it up with _just you_." There was something mad behind K's eyes, a wild glimmer that had Proko biting his lip. "I could do it in a single night."

Proko shook his head, asking, "Do you really believe that?"

K smirked. He looked far too much like his father when he wore that expression. "D'y'know why Mom named me Joseph?" There was a drug-addled lilt to his words. "D'y'know who she named me after?"

It was Swan who answered, pressing himself tighter to Skov's chest and breathing, "King of dreams."

"He didn't have shit on me, though." There was something wild and bright in K's eyes, and Proko was immensely grateful when they turned on Jiang. "You were wrong about me being a king, man."

Proko flinched when those eyes landed on him again, dark and possessive and high on power.

" _I'm a fuckin' **god**_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends. I am so sad. I am so very, very sad :( This fic has been hella fun to write, and I really don't wanna leave it behind. The sequel is still being plotted out, though, so keep your eyes open!
> 
> Also, I couldn't resist the urge to use Stiefvater's tropes as the opening and ending linesof the fic! Lol
> 
> Thanks much to everyone who's left kudos, and double thanks to those who left comments! You're all gems! <3


	19. ANNOUNCEMENT

In case you guys haven't seen it, the sequel fic is finally up! It's called [The Dreams in Which I'm Dying](http://http://archiveofourown.org/works/12042420/chapters/27266271/)! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, my Big Bang piece is finally finished! :D I have about a million and a half things to say about this fic. 
> 
> First off, it's an experimental form I've never used before: More drabbles put together than proper chapters. It's made it faster to write, but I wonder if it's really coherent? I think I might write more like this, actually. I really enjoy this style :)
> 
> The title is taken from a very odd source: It's a lyric from When You Wish Upon A Star. The story was primarily inspired by a line from Kill Your Darlings: He used to be my guardian angel, but he said I was too much work. There's that, and the simple fact that I really wanted to write out my version of the dream pack's origins.
> 
> Excited for more fics? Have constructive criticism or even just silly comments to add? Let me know! And as always, I must mention that I go by [pr0ko](http://pr0ko.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr, and I'm totally open to taking questions and comments and requests and prompts there! :) Hit me up!


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